Home is Where Your Story Begins
by FaithDaria
Summary: God told Joan, “I said your life will be easier. Easier doesn’t mean better."
1. Prologue

Title: Home is Where Your Story Begins

By: FaithDaria and PaBurke

Summary: God told Joan, "I said your life will be easier. Easier doesn't mean better. I told you two years ago that I was preparing you for battle. That battle won't be easy, but it will be worthwhile. And if you make the convenient choice now, you won't be ready for the hard choices later."

Genre: Crossover, Joan of Arcadia/Supernatural/Dresden Files

Rating: PG-13, for language, reference to sexual situations, and adult subject matters

Pairing: references to offscreen Sam/Joan

Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place after the finale of Joan of Arcadia, with the premise that season 2 took place during Joan's senior year of high school. Abrupt left turn in the Supernatural timeline after "Crossroad Blues."

Disclaimer: Harry Dresden, Father Forthill and the Carpenters belong to the excellent author Jim Butcher. Joan Girardi and family belong to Barbara Hall. Sam and Dean Winchester are the creation of Eric Kripke. Work done entirely as entertainment, for no monetary gain.

***

Prologue

The place reminded him a little of one of his favorite college hangouts; the food was good and inexpensive, they served beer but not hard liquor, and it had just the right amount of noise for hanging out on a weeknight to study. Granted, this place, like the restaurant in Palo Alto, had a strict 'serve yourself' policy that meant coming up to the counter for refills and food, but the money saved on tips more than made up for the inconvenience.

Of course, that particular rule meant that Dean made him head up for beer, but Sam knew how to milk that responsibility into future bargaining tools so he didn't mind too much. The woman behind the counter smiled when he stepped up. "What can I do for you, baby?"

Sam couldn't help smiling in return. "Two beers, please."

"Sure thing. Just let me see your license, honey."

Sam flushed and dug out his wallet. The woman looked it over, looked at Sam, and handed it back to him before reaching down underneath the counter and producing two bottles. "Before you head back to your table, can you do me a favor?" She didn't wait for him to reply before continuing. "That girl back in the corner left her book up here. Can you take it to her for me?" The woman smiled again and held out a hefty textbook.

Sam nodded and took the book. As he stepped away from the counter, he saw that it was the same Criminology textbook that he'd had back at Stanford, and he couldn't stop himself from flipping it open and glancing at a few of the pages as he walked toward the table in the corner. He closed it when he reached the table, clearing his throat to get her attention.

The girl looked up at the sound, her long brown hair slipping out of its messy, makeshift bun. "Oh, good. Thank you. I need that for Criminology. Professor Broome has a test scheduled for next week." She made a disgusted face. "Like we needed a test after that paper."

"What do you think about the class," Sam found himself asking. "Is the professor any good?"

"He's not that bad," the girl conceded. "I just took too many gen-eds this quarter, so there's a lot more papers than I was expecting. Are you taking it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm not a student here. But I took a similar class somewhere else. We even used the same textbook."

The girl looked at him for a second before smiling. "Joan Girardi," she introduced herself. "Would you mind helping me with this? If you aren't busy."

"I'm Sam. Sam Winchester." He turned around and glanced at his brother, who was busily reading the obits of the local paper. "I've got some time."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Joan fumbled for the box and read the directions again. "No," she said, her voice tinged with desperation and despair. "No, no, no! This can't be happening."

"Actions have consequences, Joan." The older woman sitting across the battered folding table was watching her with compassion. "You learned that a while ago."

"Consequences?" Joan was somewhere between spitting anger and tears. "It was one time, and I was careful. The girl two doors down has been with half the guys on campus!"

"Let me worry about her consequences. You worry about yours."

It was on the tip of Joan's tongue to ask God to take care of it, but one stern look stopped that thought cold. She settled for another low moan and dropped her head into her hands. "What am I going to do now?"

Gentle hands stroked her hair and rested lightly on her shoulders. "You have to trust me, Joan. You won't be alone." The remnants of anger dropped away at the tender ministrations, and the young woman dissolved into tears and clung to the form of the old woman.

It took several minutes of weeping before she subsided into some semblance of calm and pulled away. Her face felt blotchy, the skin hot and too tight, and she walked to the tiny bathroom of her apartment to wash away the tears. When she returned, God was standing in the open doorway. "You should have something to eat, Joan. Something with protein and iron. You know how your mother feels about you skipping breakfast." She waved as she pulled the door closed behind her, and Joan dropped down onto the couch.

Her mother. She hadn't gotten to that part of the thought process yet. She had called three times a week to check on Joan her freshman year. This year had been a little more relaxed, but there was still at least one call a week. Her dad was less likely to call, but more likely to make the hour-long trip to visit Joan at college on the spur of the moment. Joan had always been something of a daddy's girl, even though things had remained strained between them after the mess with Ryan Hunter.

What was she going to tell her parents?

***

Joan procrastinated for a week before she gave in and went to break the news to her parents. During that week, she tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, but she was pretty sure that she'd failed a test in her humanities class. She'd only managed to fill in about a third of the questions before her nausea had gotten the better of her and sent her running from the lecture hall. Between that and how tired she was, her grades would be in the toilet by the end of the semester.

When she walked into the house, the smell of garlic and onions wafting from the kitchen made her stomach roll, and she quickly sat down on the stairs, praying that it would settle. She'd thrown up three times already today, once in her apartment and twice on the side of the road, but she wasn't sure if it was morning sickness or nerves.

She had just begun to feel like she could stand without embarrassing herself when she heard her mother's soft tread on the steps above her. "Hey, sweetie." The sound of her mother's soft voice nearly caused her to break down and confess everything. In less stressful times, she had joked that this was her mother's superpower. It wasn't quite as amusing now. The older woman must have read something in her expression (Joan had never had much of a poker face) because she stepped closer and brought her hand up to the side of Joan's face. "Is everything all right? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine, Mom." A perfectly healthy _pregnant_ nineteen-year-old, she thought to herself bitterly. Nothing to worry about. She made herself smile. "Dad's in the kitchen?"

"He's making lasagna." Helen didn't seem reassured by her daughter's smile. "What's wrong?"

Joan knew that her next smile would further alarm her mother, so she didn't try. "I need to talk to you both." She took exactly three steps into the kitchen before her stomach lurched, sending her running for the bathroom. She stayed on the cool tile floor for several minutes afterward before wearily standing up and rinsing out her mouth. Her mother was waiting outside, her face full of concern.

"Do you need to lie down? I knew you were sick. You always get this pinched look on your face when you are."

"I'm not sick, Mom."

"I think the toilet would disagree."

"I'm not sick," she repeated, her voice small and miserable. She wrapped her arms around her middle and looked down at her shoes. "I'm pregnant."

Helen stopped fussing over her daughter and simply stared. "What?"

"What?!"

Joan winced and turned to her father, who was standing at the other end of the hall. This hadn't been how she wanted her parents to find out. The look of disappointment and anger on her father's face was like a knife to her heart.

"What's his name?"

"I can't tell you that." This was technically not true, but Sam was long gone and she didn't want her father dragging him back. It had hurt quite enough the first time, thank you.

"Why not?"

"Because I made a mistake, ok?" Her voice rose to match her father's as she lost what little control she had of her emotions. "Joan screwed up and slept with someone she didn't know. And now I'm paying for it."

"Take care of it," Will said roughly after what seemed to be an eternity of silence.

"Will-," her mother began.

"No, Helen. She isn't ready for something like this. The two of you need to go and fix this mistake."

"No," Joan said. "I won't do it." It was a kneejerk reaction to the anger in her father's voice more than anything, but something about it felt right to her.

Her father turned to her, his expression fierce. "You want to be saddled with some stranger's child? You have three more years of college left, then law school. Do you plan on hauling a baby to class with you? Taking it to work? What if you meet someone and all he can see is someone else's kid? You aren't ready for this responsibility."

"I don't know!" Joan felt tears prick her eyes, heard them in her voice, and she hated herself for it. "But I know it wouldn't be a stranger's child. It would be mine, and I want the chance to raise it."

"I won't help you make this mistake, Joan. Take care of it."

Joan's face crumpled as he walked away. Her mother reached out to comfort her, but the girl ducked away and bolted for the door. Jamming the key into the car's ignition with trembling hands, she started the engine and pulled raggedly away from the curb.

She had to pull over at the park a mile away from the house or risk throwing up again, this time in her car. The brisk March air felt good, made her a little numb, and she sat down on a park bench beneath a bare-branched tree and tried not to think. After a while she felt the slight tremor as someone sat down beside her.

"You have to trust me, Joan."

Joan looked at the little girl dressed in a purple parka with multi-colored gloves and a light green hat. "Is this part of your plan," she asked bitterly. "What am I supposed to do now?"

The little girl looked at her with a gentle expression. She didn't speak again for a long time, but the silence didn't seem as empty as the one with her father had.

"If you do what your father wants you to do, your life will be easier," she said.

Joan looked at her in surprise. "Are you saying I should do it?"

"I said your life will be easier. Easier doesn't mean better. I told you two years ago that I was preparing you for battle. That battle won't be easy, but it will be worthwhile. And if you make the convenient choice now, you won't be ready for the hard choices later."

Joan was quiet for a long time. Her small companion remained beside her, swinging her legs and watching the other children play on the playground. "What do you want me to do?"

The little girl smiled and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Go back to your apartment and pack a bag. Leave your phone, your credit cards, and your car behind. Take the train to Chicago. Go to Saint Mary of the Angels and ask for Father Forthill. Tell him the truth, and he'll take it from there."

"But what about school? I'm in the middle of the semester."

"Leave everything behind, Joan. Don't look back."

Joan nodded and stood up. Little Girl God stood up as well and surprised her with one of those quick, energetic little kid hugs. "You need to take care of your son, Joan. I picked him out especially for you." With that, she dashed off to join the children playing with a backwards wave.

***

Father Forthill contained his sigh when one of the laymen came hurrying up to him, but it was a near thing. He was supposed to be at the Carpenter's house to watch over the children, and he was running behind. If he made Michael late to the physical therapist, Charity would . . .well, she wouldn't actually do anything to him. Being a priest had some perks, after all. But she would not be happy.

Michael, however, would understand, so when the young man informed him that a girl had asked for him by name he went out to meet her with a smile on his face.

She was standing off to the side near the altar, and he didn't recognize her as a resident of the parish. Someone sent by Dresden, probably. When he introduced himself, she tried to smile and failed, and long years of doing what he loved told him that he was dealing with one of the world's walking wounded. "My name is Joan."

A saint's name, unusual for her generation. "What can I do for you, Joan?"

The girl took a step closer, her body language guarded even though her face was an open book of mingled worry and hope. "Ok, this is going to sound strange, and you probably won't believe me, but God told me to come here, to you specifically. He said you'd know what to do."

The priest nodded and felt himself smile. It was good to be reminded that he was still on the clock. "Come along, then. You can tell me all about it on the way."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm late for an engagement. I suspect that God intended me to bring you along, which is why He delayed me in the first place. If God sent you, you should probably meet the Carpenters."

"Yeah, that sounds like Him." She frowned. "You seem to be taking this pretty well."

"I've had some experiences over the years." He led the way to the battered church station wagon. "Why don't you tell me about yours?"

The story poured out of her on the drive to the Carpenter's house, the flow of words impossible to stop once they began and the story incredible, unbelievable, and obviously true. Taking her to the Carpenters was definitely the right thing to do.

Charity was waiting by the door, impatient and making no effort to hide it. "I'll explain when you get back," he told her. "Go, before I make you even later."

She nodded and held the door open for Michael's wheelchair. Michael wheeled himself down the ramp, rolled to a stop in front of Joan, and introduced himself. The girl shook his hand and made another attempt to smile. "Joan Girardi."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Joan," Michael said warmly, holding onto her hand a moment longer before releasing it and heading toward the minivan. Charity followed, tossing the pair of them a curious look before turning her attentions to Michael and his wheelchair. The vehicle was backing out of the driveway as Father Forthill led Joan into the Carpenter house.

***

Charity pulled the minivan into the driveway with a sigh of relief. She had wanted to get home before school let out to tidy up the kitchen and get dinner started, but traffic had not cooperated. It would probably be a mac and cheese day. There had been a lot of those since November.

She set up the wheelchair and helped her husband into it. Hopefully it wouldn't be needed for much longer. She grabbed the sack of groceries she had picked up during Michael's appointment, and followed him into the house. The television was turned off, which was a little unusual. Hope was a big fan of Sesame Street, and if Molly wasn't home (and she wasn't, since the truck was still gone) she watched it all afternoon. She headed into the kitchen to put away the groceries and stopped in the doorway. All of her children except the two oldest (Daniel was probably still at work, and Molly had _better_ be with Dresden) were seated at the table. Matthew was helping Amanda with her homework, Hope and Harry were coloring, and Alicia was carefully cutting up carrots. There were cookies cooling on the counter, and the girl she'd forgotten about was washing potatoes in the sink.

Father Forthill hurried over and took the bag from her arms. "I hope you don't mind," he murmured. "Joan noticed that you didn't have anything started for dinner and decided to help out." He began to put the groceries away with an easy familiarity, and Charity spent a moment doing absolutely nothing, which was so enjoyable that she decided to thank the girl for it.

Joan flushed a little and managed a small smile. "No problem. I had Alicia and Hope and Harry, and they're great helpers. Hope even made the cookies."

"Joan, can you handle things for a few minutes? I need to speak to Michael and Charity." The girl nodded and turned back to scrubbing the potatoes, and Father Forthill steered Charity out the door. Michael was waiting in the hallway, and he wheeled his way to their newly built ground floor bedroom. The priest waited until he'd closed the door behind him before turning to Michael.

"She's an instrument," Michael said quietly. "Do you know why she's here?"

"I think so."

Charity looked at the two of them. "You mean an instrument of God?"

"Exactly. The rest of the story is hers to tell, but that much is clear." Father Forthill sat down and regarded them both seriously. "I think God sent her here to heal. She's been hurt badly. She needs a refuge. That's why I brought her to you."

Charity could tell from Michael's expression that he wanted to shelter the girl. This was the first sign they'd seen since he was injured that God would continue to use him, and he was desperate for the connection. To go from a sword-wielding Knight of the Cross to being crippled and dependent on others was a harsh step, and it hurt to see him struggle in his new role. "We'll talk to her," she finally said. God wouldn't mind a little caution.

Father Forthill nodded and stood up. "I'll send her in."

Joan knocked at the door a few minutes later. Charity let her in and guided her to the chair beside the bed. Michael was in his wheelchair, exhausted from the physical therapy but unwilling to rest until the matter was settled, and she sat down on the bed next to him.

It was Michael who began the conversation, focusing on Joan with his remaining eye. "Do you have a place to stay while you're in Chicago?"

The girl looked surprised, like she hadn't considered it, and Charity was struck by how _young_ she was. Probably the same age as Molly, as a matter of fact, and already on the front lines. Joan shook her head, looking a little confused, and Michael looked at Charity, his opinion evident.

"We could use some help around here," Charity blurted out, coming to her decision about Joan at that moment. "You're welcome to stay here. We couldn't pay much, but you can have an upstairs bedroom for as long as you need."

Joan looked hopeful for a moment, then her face closed off. "Father Forthill didn't tell you, did he?"

"He said that whatever it was, it was your story to tell." Charity kept her voice carefully neutral.

"I'm pregnant," she said flatly, looking at them fiercely. "The father isn't in the picture, and I'm planning on keeping the baby." She crossed her arms, her face full of stubborn determination and a hint of pain.

Charity wondered for a moment what had inflicted this wound on Joan, but deemed it irrelevant for the time being. "You're welcome to stay here," she repeated firmly. Joan held onto her defiance for a moment longer before realizing it wasn't needed. Charity reached out to the girl and pulled her into a hug, ignoring the dampness on her shirt from the girl's tears. Maybe she'd needed this as much as Michael.

***

Joan slipped into the rhythm of the Carpenter house fairly quickly. The children liked her, including Molly, and Charity was glad to see the two girls form something of a friendship. Molly didn't have many friends of her own anymore; the time spent with Dresden kept her too busy for much more than family. And Molly was the first person to make Joan laugh while they were cooking dinner together. At least her daughter's cooking skills (or lack thereof) were good for something.

Father Forthill, with a little judicious prompting, had gotten Joan on the church's insurance plan. He was holding off on involving the Order, at Michael's request. Charity waited until she had the card in hand before she approached the girl about medical care. After some initial resistance, far more than she was really expecting, she managed to talk her into visiting a midwife who attended Saint Mary's. Patricia had a small office near the church, very cozy and inviting, but Joan sat ramrod straight on the edge of the waiting room couch, her face a mask of tension. Even Patricia's warm, gentle demeanor didn't manage to put Joan totally at ease, although she seemed to loosen a little once the medical history and physical exam were over and the three of them were talking in the little kitchen. Patricia had cleared out her schedule at Charity's request, and they spent about two hours chatting over cups of herbal tea and answering Joan's questions.

The older woman waited until they were alone and on the way home before she brought up Joan's discomfort. Joan had answered every question she'd been asked honestly, as far as she could tell, even the few that Michael had raised in private about her experiences with God, so Charity felt secure in asking this one. "Why don't you like doctors?" She watched out of the corner of her eye as Joan pulled in on herself a little and waited patiently for the reply. She'd raised seven children and dealt with Harry Dresden on a regular basis; she knew when she didn't need to push to get an answer.

"The last time I went to see a doctor, I was diagnosed with Lyme disease," Joan finally said. "Do you know much about it?" Charity shook her head, and Joan continued. "You get a rash, fever, vomiting, and if it goes on long enough, hallucinations." She started to cry a little, and Charity pulled over to the side of the road, undid her seat belt, and turned to the girl. Joan was staring straight ahead, her hands clenched into fists on her lap and tears running down her cheeks. "I spent three months in a mental facility disguised as a camp, where they convinced me that God wasn't real."

Charity didn't know exactly what it felt like to _know_ you were an instrument of God. From what little she'd been able to gather, Joan's experiences so far had been wildly different from Michael's, but there was still a common thread between them, a bedrock certainty that God was there and that things would eventually work out. To take away that faith would be . . .well, far worse than Michael's physical injuries. Michael was still I_Michael_/I, just with different abilities and responsibilities. If one took away his faith, he would cease to be. "How long had you been . . .?"

"Less than a year. I was seventeen, and the only person that I told about it thought I was crazy." This was an old wound, then, but one that still ached. "I sort of fell apart for a while. I had this friend from that time, her name was Judith, and she was just . . ." She shook her head. "Words can't really describe her. She was trying so hard to feel alive, and no matter how hard I tried to reach that part of her, she just kept making these choices that got her hurt. The last time I was at a hospital at all was for her, and then she died." Joan choked a little on that part. "I guess it soured me a bit on the medical practice."

"Do you want to keep seeing Patricia?"

Joan nodded her head. "I need to get over it. It's stupid when you think about it. They didn't make Him go away, and I know better now." She didn't bother trying to smile, but she did relax her hands. "We better get on the road."

Charity nodded and put her seat belt on. The rest would come out when the girl was ready. No sense pushing further. She pulled into traffic and changed the subject.

***

Joan _liked_ the Carpenters: the kids were sweethearts, Michael interesting to talk with, Charity a wonderful person (if occasionally intimidating), and Molly was swiftly becoming as good of a friend as Grace had been in high school. But she was very conscious of her status as their invited guest, and so at first she just ignored the way Charity hovered over Michael. As she grew more comfortable in her place with them, she started picking up on Michael's frustration when he tried to do something and Charity swept in and did it for him. It was a familiar tale to Joan, who had seen the same thing happen with her brother and mother. She watched it for a week before deciding to do something about it.

She started small, distracting Charity with a dropped jelly jar when she could see that Michael was getting ready to clear his dishes. It soon became clear that this wasn't enough; there were some things he wanted to do and couldn't, things from _before_ that had been important to him. So she had Molly drop her off at the public library during one of the girl's odd private tutoring sessions, and began her research.

She talked to Michael about what he wanted to be able to do and what he could do, to Charity about what could be afforded, and enlisted Daniel and then the rest of the children to make it happen. Eventually, as the project progressed, she handed it over almost completely to Daniel, since he knew more about what was needed. She only added her input when it came to wheelchair accessibility. This was a family project, not something she should take credit for.

In the end, it took about two months to put the wood workshop together in a way that both Daniel and Michael would be able to utilize the tools available. The look of honest enjoyment as Michael came to the dinner table smelling of sawdust was as satisfying as anything God had asked her to do.

***

God had adopted a new form for her stay in Chicago: a bright, sunny girl her age who was involved in an apprenticeship with Patricia. Joan had freaked when she had realized it at her second appointment. She was _so_ not ready for Him. Joan had somehow managed to avoid God for the whole visit, but it left her rattled. It had taken Charity an hour to calm her down. She still didn't know for sure what had set Joan off. The next time at the midwife's was a little different; God pounced on her before she could become frightened.

"I'm here for you, Joan."

"I can't do anything for you. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"I know, Joan. I'm not asking you to."

Joan relaxed but still wasn't breathing normally. "You're not?"

"No. I'm just here to support you." The girl grinned. "I love seeing them develop into the people they become."

Joan's feelings warred between relief and abandonment. "I don't have to do anything?"

"You're doing what you need to do right where you are. That's what I want most of my children to do."

"Oh."

The midwife visits got a little better after that. It was a relief to still see God sometimes and to be given such reaffirming with every appointment. Since Joan had not seen God in any other form for almost four months, it took her a couple of seconds to realize that the punk across the park from Charity's kids was God.

He nodded at her.

Joan hesitated for a couple moments; it was time to get back to work. She wasn't sure she was ready for this. The young woman had a feeling that He would be asking her to leave this cozy little sanctuary.

God was waiting for her.

"Charity?" Joan finally called to the woman pushing her son on the swing.

Charity looked at her.

"I need to go for a walk."

Charity nodded. She would keep an eye on the children. Even the one that had been quietly adopted.

Joan took a deep breath and then took a step toward Goth God. Then she took another step and then another step. Before she knew it, she was standing before God.

"Uhm, hi?"

Goth God smiled. That was always slightly creepy to Joan. "It's good to see you outside of the clinic."

"You want me to do something."

"Yes."

"All right, what?"

"I want you to get a round trip bus ticket."

"Round trip? So I'm coming back?"

"This time. You can leave some of your things behind if you want."

"Okay… so where am I going?"

"Missouri."

"Missouri?"

"Drury, Missouri."

"Hey, that rhymes."

God waited patiently.

"So what am I doing in Drury, Missouri?"

"Talking and sharing with people how life changes and how change is not always bad. Be honest about your experiences. They'll need it. Oh, and get a job for your duration."

"How will I know who to talk to?"

God smiled again. "I'll put them in your way. You best be getting back. Charity is waiting."

Joan turned. Charity was watching Joan's meeting with a determined intensity. Joan watched when the realization sunk in, when Charity _knew_ who she was talking to. Charity crossed herself, kissed her thumb and bowed her head. God smiled at the act, turned on his heel and walked away.

"I'm not done talking to you," Joan called to him.

"_Bon_ _Voyage_," God called back.

***

Azazael pulled back from Scott Carey's dreams with satisfaction. The boy was coming along nicely. Not quite the loose cannon of Max Miller, thankfully, and he didn't really have the potential of Sam or even Ava, but he was developing an interesting ability, one that would be highly useful.

It was still impossible to tell if the boy could be the vessel, but at the very least he was becoming a fairly powerful psychic. The Demon could work with that.

He took another moment to enjoy Scott's confusion and fear before moving on. He had some deals coming due across the Midwest United States, and a few more scattered across the globe. Duty called.

And, of course, destruction, but that was another matter.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The bus station wasn't as busy as she had feared it would be, and Joan sank gratefully down onto an uncomfortable chair, dropping her backpack onto the dirty tile floor. There was an older lady sitting in the row across from her, busily knitting on a blanket. She was focused intently on her work, a slight frown on her face, and the young woman decided not to distract her. There would be a two-hour layover at this station, which would hopefully be enough time to catch a quick nap. She had spent most of the bus ride so far feeling nauseous and hadn't been able to sleep like she'd wanted to. The row of plastic, armless chairs was vacant, so Joan set her backpack on one and used it as a pillow while she stretched out across the others. She reached underneath her loose shirt and unbuttoned her pants with a sigh of relief. She needed to move on to maternity clothing, but new clothing cost money that she didn't have.

Joan had just begun to relax despite the uncomfortable, noisy surroundings when she felt it. She jerked up and pressed one hand to her abdomen, panic stirring. It almost felt like very faint cramps, although it wasn't painful. She scrambled for her cell phone as she tried to remember what the signs of a miscarriage were. It took several fumbling tries before she managed to dial the Carpenter house, only to end up growling with frustration when no one picked up. Was this something she should bother Patricia with?

"Are you all right?" Joan looked up from contemplating her phone to see the older woman looking at her with concern in her faded blue eyes. She had set her knitting aside and was standing in front of Joan. "Is there something I can do?"

"I don't know." She couldn't quite keep the faint note of panic out of her voice. Why wasn't Charity picking up? Something was wrong and she didn't know what to do. "I felt something."

The woman sat down next to her. "Are you pregnant," she asked quietly. Joan nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment color her cheeks. "What did you feel?"

"It . . .it kind of felt like cramps," the girl said quietly, her color deepening. She hadn't even liked talking about this with the _midwife_, let alone a complete stranger at the bus station. "It didn't hurt, though. That's good, right?"

"That's a very good sign," the woman agreed, smiling encouragingly. Her voice was calm, soothing, and Joan thought, for an absurd moment, that the old woman could probably use that voice to settle a spooked animal. "What's your name, dear?"

"Joan."

"All right, Joan. You can call me Cecilia. Did it feel something like fluttering?" Cecilia smiled more broadly when Joan nodded and reached out to pat her hand. "There's nothing to worry about, dear. That's your baby moving. That's what you felt."

"You're sure?"

"I've had three of my own. That's what it feels like. As long as there's no pain or contractions, you're in good shape."

Joan sighed with relief and sagged back against the plastic chair. "Thank you."

"For what?" Cecilia sat down next to her, a wrinkled but strong hand grasping Joan's still-trembling one. "We women have to stick together, sweetie. I'm guessing you're all alone?"

"Umm . . .," Joan looked away from the woman, her earlier embarrassment returning in spades.

"It's all right, you don't have to answer." Cecilia hurried to put her at ease, looking worried about upsetting her now that the question was out there. "It's none of my business, really."

"No, no, I want to. It's just a hard question to answer." She looked up at the older woman. "His father isn't around, but I'm not alone. Not really. I can't really explain it."

"You don't have to explain," Cecilia reassured her. "Sometimes things happen that leave us alone." She seemed to falter at the end of her statement; her expression dimming back to what it had been when Joan had first seen her.

"We're never really alone, though," Joan blurted out, hoping to bring back some of the light. Cecilia looked at her with shuttered eyes, and the young woman hurried to qualify it. "Stuff happens that we don't always like. But it happens for a reason. And we might never know the reason, because that's the big picture that we can't see."

"You seem rather young and alone for such a sentiment." Cecilia picked up her knitting. Joan didn't know if that was a signal to end the conversation or not.

"What are you making?" she finally ventured.

Cecilia didn't answer immediately. "A lap blanket."

It sounded like a lie, but why would anyone lie over something so insignificant? "I really like the colors." It was true the bright assortment of oranges, reds and yellows appealed to her. She rested her hands on her stomach and sighed. "I should have thought to bring something with me. Would've made this trip go by a little faster."

Cecilia thawed a little. "Do you know how to knit?"

"A little. I'm not very good at it yet."

The older woman rummaged through her bag. "Practice makes perfect, sweetie. Would you like to start something? I have extra needles and yarn."

Joan nodded, beaming, and Cecilia passed over the needles and a ball of red yarn. After a few false starts, her fingers seemed to catch on again and she started making progress. The two women sat together, knitting in what had become a comfortable silence, for close to an hour before Joan's hands cramped up and she was forced to set the project to the side. "So where are you headed?"

"St. Louis, for now. I'll be staying with my daughter for a while." Cecilia didn't look up from her knitting. The woman must have the strongest hands in the state.

"That's good. Family's important." Joan winced a little at the statement even as she made it. How lame and boring could you be? "So what's your daughter like?"

"She works as a paramedic for the fire department. And she's infuriating." Cecilia looked up, raising a faded eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"Drury, Missouri."

"And what will you be doing there?"

Joan shrugged. "I'll figure it out when I get there." Drury was called just then and the line for her bus began to form, so she gathered her bag and stood up. "Here's your yarn back. You can unravel it and start something new if you want."

"You keep it," said Cecilia, digging through her bag and coming up with three small items. They were made of the same yarn as Cecilia's current project. Joan recognized them as a tiny cap and a pair of booties. "Here, take these too. I made them for my daughter-in-law, but I think you need them more."

"I couldn't," Joan protested.

"Nonsense. I can always make more. Take them." She pressed them into Joan's hands. "Now hurry and get in line. You don't want to miss your bus."

***

Cecilia watched as the girl climbed onto her bus and sighed. A part of her regretted giving away the tiny things she had knitted for her first grandchild, but Matthew and Jennifer wouldn't be needing them and Joan definitely did.

The woman sighed and rubbed her hands. She shouldn't have kept on knitting like that, but the distraction had been necessary. The girl had reminded her of Jennifer, not so much in appearance as in personality, and the pain of that resemblance had been unexpected. She was used to things reminding her of her son, had grown accustomed to that particular ache, but the acute reminder of her daughter-in-law and the grandchild that would never be born had caught her by surprise.

The anger at her son had faded, but it still flared up at times like this. She had understood why he had chosen his lifestyle, had even supported him, but if his work hadn't followed him home, she'd be a grandmother by now. And Matthew would be a father, instead of dead at the hands of the same creature that had killed his wife and unborn child.

***

Joan stood outside the bus station and took in the sights of Drury, Missouri. There wasn't much to see. She'd already taken a walk around the small town, which had taken approximately twenty-five minutes. There was a library, a small motel, a post office, two restaurants and a gas station/convenience store. She wasn't sure why God had sent her here, beyond nebulous instructions to find a job and share her experiences.

Finding a job was something she could handle. The library building had a help wanted sign in the window; she would start there. Joan settled her backpack on her shoulders and headed in that direction.

The door was locked when she got there, but there were lights on inside and she could see someone at the circulation desk so she knocked to get their attention. A pleasant-looking woman in her fifties came to the locked door.

"I'm sorry, honey, we're closed. We just started moving into the building and we won't be open for at least a week."

"Actually, I'm here about the help wanted sign." Joan saw the woman look her up and down, gaze lingering on her middle, and fought the urge to cover herself with her arms. Instead she started talking, the words coming out in a rush. "My name is Joan Girardi. I've worked in bookstores for the last three years, and I'm pretty good at shelving and computer catalogs."

"It's just temporary," the woman said apologetically. "We need someone to unpack and shelve the books on this end, double check the catalog and maybe help set up the new computers."

"I'm only in town for a little while. Temporary is fine. And I could definitely do everything you've mentioned so far."

"I don't know," she said, still glancing down at Joan's belly at intervals during the conversation.

The young woman took a chance, reached out and touched the arm of the librarian, resting her other hand on her belly. "This won't affect my ability to do the job," Joan said when she was sure she had the other woman's attention. "Give me a chance. You won't regret it."

"All right," the older woman said finally, standing back and letting Joan inside. Joan shivered a little in the air-conditioned atmosphere, which was a drastic change from the muggy sunshine outside. The librarian lead the way through the eerily empty shelves and into a back room crowded with boxes. There was a boy of about twelve or thirteen there, sitting at a table with a book in front of him. "Jonathon!" The boy scrambled up from his seat, looking equal parts startled and guilty as the librarian swept into the room, Joan trailing behind. "We're not paying you to read, you know," the older woman said, a slight smile softening the words a little. "This is Joan. You two will be working together."

Jonathon glanced up at her from under long, untidy hair. "Nice to meet you," he said, his dark eyes not quite meeting hers.

She smiled back at him. "You too. You must know the library pretty well for them to trust you to keep me in line."

***

Joan moaned with pleasure as one calloused, long-fingered hand slid down her back. The other cupped her cheek and drew her in for a kiss. She returned it eagerly, letting her own hands glide over a broad chest and drift downward. Sam's mouth moved down to her neck and he murmured something that she strained to hear as the room started to fill with light.

The dreamscape dissolved abruptly when her eyes snapped open, the lights of a passing semi illuminating the empty motel room. Joan lay in the bed for a minute or so, willing her heartbeat to drop down to something resembling normal. Both Patricia and Charity had mentioned that this kind of dream was fairly common during pregnancy, but she hadn't really taken the warnings seriously. When she felt like she could stand without trembling, she climbed out of bed and headed into the postage-stamp bathroom. After using the toilet, she washed her face and hands and got herself a cup of water from the tap. Her hands shook a little as she drank and Joan stared at herself in the mirror, trying to will the emotions the dream had stirred up back into their box.

Almost against her will, she began studying her reflection, noting the changes. She hadn't had this much unfettered bathroom time since she walked away from her tiny apartment, and she couldn't resist the urge to lift the hem of her sleep shirt and take a good long look.

Her stomach was the most obvious difference, of course, too round to be anything but pregnancy and impossible to hide anymore. Her boobs had gotten a little bigger, which wasn't entirely unwelcome, but so had her rear end. Her face was rounder, too. Everything was round nowadays.

Joan sighed and dropped her shirt back into place. Would the changes not have mattered as much if Sam were here? If he loved her and was here with her, excited about the baby on the way, would she welcome the way her body was transforming?

Tired from all this introspection at a hideous hour, Joan crawled back into bed. Her cell phone was sitting on the nightstand, and she reached for it and paged through the contacts. She let the cursor hover on 'Home' for a moment, a lump in her throat as she thought about how much she missed her family. She wanted her mom to hug her and stroke her hair, and her dad to make everything all right, and her brothers to just be here.

Sniffing back the tears, she moved the cursor down. Grace was out of the question. She hated being dragged into this kind of drama, and that is exactly what would happen if she hit send right now.

Charity would have answered the phone and would have talked to her for a while, but Joan felt bad calling at 4 am when the woman had so much on her plate already. And that left only one name in her contacts list. She stared at Sam's name until the screen went dark, one hand absently rubbing the curve of her belly.

She knew she should tell Sam. He deserved to know that he was going to be a father. But every time Joan got ready to make the call, she remembered waking up alone the morning after their night together with nothing but a note that contained his scribbled-down phone number. It was the first number that she'd programmed into her prepaid cell when she left for Chicago, and like all the other numbers it remained undialed.

Joan snapped the phone shut decisively and turned off the light. She would get to sleep eventually.

***

The following days quickly settled into a pattern. Joan worked with Jonathon, cataloging and shelving every book in the library's collection and double-checking to make sure that they were all in the computer system. The work was boring and repetitive, but not all that physically or mentally demanding, so the two of them ended up talking while they worked. They laughed at how certain parts of the alphabet slipped into sentences as they tried to multitask.

Jonathon was better at keeping his tasks separate and with a little bit of digging, Joan soon figured out that he was a straight A student always looking for something more to learn. When she mentioned some of the messes that her brother Luke got into, Jonathon frowned. His school did not have the money or the opportunities for him to learn and explore like Arcadia High. He was floundering for something to do. Joan searched through the non-fiction books and found the perfect solution. It had less pictures and more explanations than Jonathon preferred reading but with a little encouragement, the physics book was carried wherever the boy went.

She met him in front of the library every morning, and they sat down on the steps in the sunshine as they waited for one of the librarians to unlock the doors for the day. Joan found herself combing her memory for interesting tidbits from her science classes to meld with the boy's newfound interest in physics. It was surprising how much remained in her mind, even though some of it was garbled.

It was on one of these mornings that she came around the corner and saw a group of boys gathered in front of the library. Joan paused and studied the situation for the moment, but it became obvious what was going on when one of the unknown boys shoved another to the ground. "Hey!" She hurried over, shouting as she went, and the other boys scattered, leaving the one who'd been knocked down behind. When she reached the boy, Joan realized that it was Jonathon. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, and reached over to pick up the book he'd been carrying. The boy smoothed the bent pages, refusing to look up and meet Joan's eyes.

"So why were they bothering you?"

"It's ok. I can handle it." The 'I'm used to it,' went unspoken, but Joan heard it nonetheless.

"You shouldn't have to handle it," Joan said, her temper flaring. "Those kids were jerks and they shouldn't be picking on you."

"I can handle it," the boy repeated, his voice a little stronger than before. "It's no big deal. I just don't want anyone hanging over me."

Joan forced herself to sit down on the steps, and the boy came over to join her. "It is a big deal," she said, trying very hard to keep her voice quieter and more even than before. "You shouldn't let them do it. It doesn't matter if you can handle it. The next person they come after might not be able to."

"That's why I let them pick on me. That way they leave the other kids alone."

Joan smiled at him and nudged him with one shoulder. "You're a pretty smart kid."

"That's why they pick on me," Jonathon said simply.

"You remind me of my brother. He's pretty smart too, when he's not being a . . .," she broke off, remembering the age of her audience and checking her language. "When he's not doing something stupid. Like letting someone beat him up."

"It's not that stupid," he said indignantly.

"Yeah it is, but it's brave stupid, so I'll let you get away with it. Just so long as you don't let what they say get to you." She looked over at him with eyebrows raised. "And as long as they're not seriously hurting you."

The boy nodded, surprisingly earnest. "I know."

"So if someone does hurt you, you'll stop it."

"Yeah."

"All right then."

***

The sun was warm on her shoulders as she walked away from the library for the last time. She would miss Jonathon, but the kid had Luke's e-mail address and she knew he would be all right. Cute-boy God was waiting on the sidewalk for her, still wearing his corduroy jacket despite the heat of the August day. It had been three very hot weeks in Missouri. "Ready to head back to Chicago, Joan?"

"Yeah, I think so." She looked at him suspiciously. "You're not planning on sending me somewhere else, are you?"

"No, not just yet. You should go back to the Carpenters for a while. They could use the help."

"Good. Well, not that they need my help, but that I get to go back."

"It's always nice to feel wanted, Joan. And Charity likes having you around. You should enjoy your time with the Carpenters." They walked toward the bus station in silence. God stopped at the door. "You need to start being more careful, Joan. You and your baby are beacons. You're going to attract attention from the other side of things."

"The other side of things?"

"There's evil out there in the world, Joan. You've seen it. And evil likes to devour innocence." He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers against her belly, and she could feel a flutter of movement, quickly becoming more familiar and less terrifying every time it happened. "Be careful," he reiterated, folding his hands into his pockets. "It's looking for you both."

Joan looked worried. "I'm not going to cause trouble for Michael and Charity, am I?"

"Nothing they can't handle." He smiled and walked away, giving a quick wave before he turned the corner and was gone from sight.

***

Azazel had been in the midst of tainting another psychic child in Missouri when he felt it.

Power.

Just a pulse.

He left the little girl and didn't bother to flame the nursery since the mother never awoke to defend her child.

Where was the power that called to him?

There was a scent on the wind. It was trailing away.

It was… pre-natal.

It was…

Oh.

_Yes_.

A Winchester.

How very, very sloppy.

How very, very delicious.

Azazel could feel the Brothers in a northwest direction, South Dakota if he wasn't mistaken. The child was not anywhere near them.

Nor their protection, not that he couldn't taint the child right in front of them. (He conveniently forgot the little girl that Samuel had… taken off the roster.) It wasn't as if they could kill him without the Colt. They would have to stand by and watch helplessly.

How very, very delicious.

He would ensure that the mother did not survive the sixth month of her child's life. Just to add to Samuel's guilt. To give Azazel another rein to manipulate his General-to-be.

He would have to find the mother. It wasn't likely that there was a deal binding them, but he could probably coerce her into one somehow. All he had to do was watch her and find out who her weaknesses were.

How hard could it be, to find one pregnant woman who pulsed with such tantalizing power?


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Luke collapsed on the couch with his laptop when he got back to his little sublet apartment. His internship at Proctor and Gamble was exhausting enough without the last several months of family drama, and all he really wanted right now was a little peace and quiet to check his e-mail and a cold can of soda. And maybe some time with Grace, but that was a little harder to arrange while she was in New York and he was in Cincinnati.

He glanced through the spam folder first; the filter was a little indiscriminate and sometimes sent things there that didn't belong. He had scrolled about halfway through the list when his sister's name caught his eye. He clicked on it without hesitation and read it through twice before reaching for his cell phone.

Joan had been in Missouri, and she'd been all right. That was the important part, the part his mother would want to know. The kid who'd sent the e-mail said she'd given him Luke's address because the boy reminded her of him. Apparently she thought they should talk. Luke tapped out a quick reply, trying not to display his anxiety. This secondhand reference was the first they'd heard of Joan in over six months.

A new message from the boy in Missouri, Jonathon McCoy, was waiting when he got off the phone with his mother. It gave a few more details, all Luke had felt comfortable asking a child. Reading between the lines, it seemed like she was still pregnant, which was what he had expected. Joan wouldn't have cut ties so completely with the family unless she had set her mind on keeping the baby. Luke had never met anyone as stubborn as his sister when she decided to do something.

The rest of the information was general. She'd been helping the local library move into a new building, shelving books and setting up computers, but she had left town three weeks later when the work was finished. Jonathon said that she'd told him she was needed somewhere else, but she hadn't named the place.

Luke wondered about that 'needed somewhere else' line. Was his sister sick again? She had acted like that sometimes when the Lyme disease had been active in her system. On the other hand, she could have had a job lined up at her destination. If Joan was traveling from place to place, getting paid under the table at whatever job she found, she would be nearly impossible to find. She hadn't used her credit cards since she'd left, and she'd left her cell phone and her car at her apartment at school. He was starting to suspect that no one would find Joan until and unless she wanted to be found.

None of that mattered to Luke. He'd be heading to Missouri this weekend.

***

Alicia was the one to answer the door when Joan knocked. The girl's surprised expression quickly turned to one of caution, and she held the door open without saying anything.

Joan stepped over the threshold of the Carpenter's house without hesitation. She knew she was always welcome here. Alicia relaxed and hugged her and the young woman hugged back, glad for the contact. "What happened?" The rule about issuing invitations was typically only enforced after dusk, and it was ten in the morning.

"Molly and Mr. Dresden got hurt," Alicia said, stepping back from the hug and looking up at her with serious eyes. "Daddy said we have to be careful until they're better."

"How bad is Molly hurt?" She shrugged out of her backpack and left it next to the couch.

"Pretty bad. Mom thinks she should still be in the hospital, but Molly was worried that someone would get hurt because of her." Alicia smiled suddenly, the mischievous smile of a younger sibling. "She'll be glad you're here. She was starting to go stir crazy in her room, so Mom sent in Hope and Harry to keep her company."

"I'm guessing _that_ went well," said Joan as she headed for the stairs.

"They decorated her casts for her," the girl said, grinning. "Hope drew rainbows and Harry drew trucks." Alicia headed back to the living room and the book she had been reading, leaving Joan alone as she climbed the stairs.

She met Charity as the older woman was coming out of the guest bedroom with a garbage bag. "Joan? I thought you were in Missouri."

Joan shrugged. "I was told to come back." She watched as something that looked like realization crossed Charity's face. "Do you have room for me?"

"Always," Charity said, pulling her into a hug. "You'll have to share with Molly, though. Dresden is in the guest room right now."

"Alicia told me they were hurt."

Charity nodded as she led the way to Molly's bedroom. "Molly broke her wrist, ankle and two ribs, has a mild concussion, and had a punctured lung. Dresden's even worse off, which is the only reason he's in the guest bedroom right now."

Charity had intentionally left the details vague, and Joan knew enough not to ask. It was one of the unspoken agreements of this arrangement: Joan didn't ask about what Molly and her odd tutor/boss did, and she didn't offer up specifics of her own special situation to anyone but Michael and Charity. She followed Charity through the open door to Molly's room. Molly was propped up against the headboard with pillows, looking pale and a little subdued. "Joan," she exclaimed, wincing as she attempted to move. She dropped the book she was reading.

"Hey, take it easy," Joan scolded. "I swear, I leave for a couple of weeks and you go and get yourself hurt."

"What, this?" Molly waved the arm that was currently encased inside of a cast. As advertised, it sported several different boxy shapes that could be trucks if you squinted just right. "This is nothing. You should see the other guy."

"I'll take your word for it."

Joan gingerly leaned over the bed and hugged her friend, nearly losing her balance as she did so. Both girls started giggling, although Molly's were short-lived due to the pain in her ribs. She reached out for Joan's belly with her unbroken right hand. "Wow," she breathed.

"I know," Joan sighed. "Growing by leaps and bounds." She sat down on the bed next to Molly.

Charity smiled at the two friends. "I'll let you two catch up." She disappeared through the door, leaving them alone.

"So have you felt him moving around yet," Molly asked eagerly.

"Yeah, at the bus station of all places. It scared the crap out of me. It's all starting to become so real, y'know?" She leaned back against the pillows next to Molly. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got hurt."

Molly shrugged. "It's not like you could have done something to stop it. And now you can guard me against small children with markers."

"What makes you so sure I don't have a set of my own?" Joan grinned at her friend. She dropped her hand down to her belly when she felt movement. "Did you feel that?"

Molly had a look of concentration on her face. "Nope. Think he'll move again?"

"Probably. I think I'm carrying a future Olympic hopeful with all the gymnastics he's doing in there." She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. "You've got a really comfortable bed."

"Good thing you like it. If you're staying for a little while, we're going to probably be roomies."

The two friends sat there chatting for a while. Joan got Molly her meds when the appointed time came around and then went down to the kitchen to forage for food when they got hungry. Charity was in the middle of dinner preparations when she got downstairs, so she skipped the snack and helped the older woman put together trays for Molly and the family friend in the guest room, who she still hadn't met. Charity loaded up the tray for Molly, no doubt knowing that Joan would be eating with her oldest daughter.

The two enjoyed the impromptu slumber party, sitting up and talking late into the night before deciding to turn off the lights and go to sleep. Because of her injuries, Molly had to sleep propped up to avoid fluid collecting in her lungs, and she didn't find it very restful. Mostly she dozed in and out with her friend curled up on the queen bed beside her.

It was during one of the 'in' times that Joan had the nightmare. Molly was trying to force herself back into sleep (she'd never had much luck with counting sheep) when she heard the girl moan and felt her shift on the bed. She reached out to touch Joan on the shoulder and wake her up, but as soon as she made contact with the other girl there was a flash and she was standing someplace that was definitely not her bedroom.

The apprentice wizard looked around carefully. She couldn't seem to make herself walk anywhere to explore her surroundings. Was she in some kind of vision? Then a worse thought occurred: had she accidentally gotten into Joan's head? Molly studied the funhouse around her and gratefully crossed that off the list. There was no way her friend was this disturbed.

Then a tall, good-looking young man hurried past her and headed straight for the pipe organ in the corner. Molly watched as he reached in and grabbed one of the brass pipes before jerking away, hissing in pain. He wrapped his hands and tried again, working one of the pipes free. Another man walked up to him, not quite as tall but definitely as handsome, and then it began to get confusing. The entire scene sped up as knives were thrown by an invisible attacker, until finally the first man stabbed the pipe he had broken off into whatever they were fighting. Molly gasped and found herself back in her room on her bed. Joan was looking at her with bleary, confused eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Bad dream," Molly said, wondering what in the world had just happened.

"You too?" The other girl yawned and squirmed into a more comfortable position. "I think we need to put a hold on the spicy food before bedtime."

"You're the one who suggested the nachos."

"You should never listen to a pregnant woman and her cravings," Joan said, her voice drowsy. "I was eating tomatoes whole while I was in Missouri. I could find them at all the farmers' markets and bought them every time. I couldn't stop myself." She groaned as if having a sudden thought. "I bet your mom is going to drag me to see Patricia next week. I'm going to be in so much trouble for this."

"Don't worry about it. Mom won't tell."

"Patricia will just know. She's kind of scary like that."

Molly was the one that groaned this time. "Just go to sleep. You can be good tomorrow."

***

The young woman stepped back into the controlled chaos of their family like she'd never been gone, splitting her time between taking care of Molly and keeping the children occupied and all but refusing to leave the house for anything other than her appointment with Patricia. Charity didn't bring up Joan's newfound reserve when it came to strangers, although she couldn't help but wonder about it.

Dresden's injuries healed enough that he could return home after a couple of weeks, and Joan moved out of Molly's room and into the relative privacy of the guest room. Charity dragged down the box of utilitarian maternity clothing that usually lived in the attic and allowed the girl free reign with the sewing machine after showing her the basics. Joan needed the clothing more than she did. And if she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and heard the battered machine whirring, she didn't say anything to the girl. Charity knew and understood that kind of therapeutic work more than anyone.

***

Joan shifted on the pew while she watched the adult Carpenters file out to receive communion. Attending Sunday mass was one of the concessions she made for Charity. She didn't really mind most of it, but the idea of communion or confession or any of the other things associated with the Catholic Church made her feel uneasy. She was Catholic only in the most tenuous sense and she had her own way of talking to God.

After the benediction, she followed Charity and Michael out to the parking lot, the herd of Carpenter children milling around the adults in an almost organized fashion. Joan stepped back from the van so Charity could help Michael and Daniel could load in the smaller children, stumbling over the curb as she moved. She was saved from falling by a hand on her elbow.

"Careful there," said the man behind her, and Joan felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She turned to look at the figure, breaking his hold on her arm as Charity came up beside her. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to that baby." He smiled and Joan recoiled, stepping back towards the church, her instincts screaming GET AWAY GET AWAY GET AWAY.

With another smile and a nod, the man walked away, quickly disappearing into the crowd. Charity watched him go with a frown on her face before turning to Joan. "What was that about?"

Joan shook her head, too rattled to do much more. She climbed into the van and settled into the seat. Her nerves were shot and her hands shook slightly, and she wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. She just knew that it was very bad.

When they got back to the house, the young woman excused herself from Sunday lunch and headed up the spare room, still hers for the time being. She changed out of the dress she'd been wearing and into something more comfortable and practical before sinking down onto the twin bed. Whatever had happened outside of the church, it left her shaken to the core and more frightened than she'd ever been. Just standing near that man had made her queasy; his hand on her elbow had sent forth screaming messages of WRONG WRONG WRONG and if she'd been forced to stay there, Joan was sure that she would have thrown up. Even now, just thinking about it, she felt unsettled.

"You need to leave Chicago." Joan looked up as God sat down next to her, His piercings glinting in the light. It was startling to see Him in the tiny, crowded room, sitting on the twin bed beside her. "Take the train to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."

"Right now?"

"Tomorrow, Joan. It can wait while you get some rest." He placed one pale, slender hand on her abdomen; the black-painted fingernails looked odd against the cheerful print of the maternity top she was wearing. "You won't be back for a while. Make sure you say goodbye to everyone."

"What happened today?" Joan's voice was quiet as she asked the question. "Who was that man?"

"Wrong question, Joan. It's not who the man was. It's what he is." With that, he stood up and walked through the bedroom doorway, his hand raised in a wave.

***

The kitchen light was on when Molly finally got home from her latest lesson with Harry in making things explode, and she wandered over to see who was up at this hour. It was a school night; if one of the kids were awake, then they would be sick and needing help.

It turned out to be Joan sitting at the table, stirring the melted remains of a dish of ice cream. "This was good ice cream," she said, her voice pensive. "I just lost interest halfway through."

"What are you doing up?"

"Waiting for you. I didn't know if I'd get a chance to see you tomorrow morning."

"You're leaving again?"

Joan nodded and continued playing with her food. "I don't really want to," she confessed. "Your family's been great. I wish I could stay. But I can't live in a bubble." She pushed her bowl aside and settled back in her chair, resting her hands on her belly. "And I think it might be safer if I keep moving," she said quietly.

Molly frowned at that last statement. "Why do you say that?"

The other girl was silent for a minute or so, choosing her words carefully. "There are . . . some nasty people out there who would like to get their hands on this baby. It's harder for them to find me when I'm in motion."

This was the closest Joan had come to mentioning things from the spooky side of the street, although Molly had long suspected that she knew about them. She took too many of the right precautions to be wholly ignorant of the supernatural. But why did she have this particular worry? Molly studied her friend more closely, reaching out with all her senses.

Over the last few weeks the baby had taken center stage with a vengeance. Joan was carrying high and forward, so it looked like she was hiding a soccer ball under her shirt. She'd become increasingly uncomfortable among crowds of people as the pregnancy progressed, and had spent quite a bit of time holed up in the Carpenter house since she'd returned. Molly had thought this was a combination of self-consciousness about her appearance and shame over the situation, but obviously there was more to it than that. Now that she was concentrating on Joan, she could feel a very faint pulse of power.

To the best of Molly's knowledge, Joan had no magical abilities whatsoever. There was a definite power around her, but it was more like someone or something else had marked her. This feeling was probably coming from the baby she was carrying. "Tell me about the father," Molly blurted out.

Her friend sighed and readjusted her posture. "It should never have happened. It's just . . . I was so _lonely_, and Sam was there and he was lonely too, and we started talking, and then we started kissing. The next thing I know, I'm taking him back to my apartment for a little privacy." She stopped there and looked down at her belly. "He was back on the road with his brother the next morning. I haven't heard from him since."

"Do you have any way to contact him, let him know about the baby?"

Joan's head jerked up. "I'm not going to contact him. If he wants to know, he'll have to find me."

Molly quickly abandoned that line of conversation, although she noticed that Joan hadn't really answered the question. She returned to her earlier train of thought. "Do you know if he had . . . I mean, was he . . .?"

"You mean, did he have some connection to the weird and strange?" Apparently Joan was tired of dancing around the topic as well. "Maybe. He had some weird habits."

"Like?"

"After he left, I found a line of salt in front of all the windows and the door."

"Salt's a pretty effective barrier against demons," the wizard-in-training said. "A circle of salt is a quick and dirty way to protect yourself when you can't get behind a good threshold."

Joan nodded, absorbing the information. She was very aware of the power of home and threshold. "I'm pretty sure he spilled holy water on me, too. 'Accidentally,' of course. I think he was checking to make sure I wasn't possessed."

Molly smiled. "Was he cute?"

Joan turned pink. "So cute. Tall, gorgeous dimples, and very nicely put together, with broad shoulders and hazel-green eyes." She sighed and ran one hand over her belly, as if to remind herself of the end result of that encounter. "He was my first, you know? And every girl has this fantasy about how it will be this magical time of romance and connection and sharing. Figuring out the next morning that he doesn't see it the same way isn't part of that." Joan pushed herself up from the table, rinsed out her dish and left it in the sink. "I better try to get some sleep. Your mom is dragging me to see Patricia for one last appointment before I leave tomorrow." She pulled Molly into a slightly awkward hug and headed for the stairs.

As she curled up on her side on the twin bed in the guest room, Joan wondered why she hadn't told her friend about the dreams. Molly would have understood, might have even been able (and willing) to explain them. When asked, God had just smiled mysteriously, in that irritating way He had, and refused to tell her why she'd been having dreams about Sam and his brother.

They had started slowly, one or two a week at the beginning, and then built until she saw the two of them every time she fell asleep. Sam and his brother, usually fighting things that most people didn't believe in, played on the big screen in her mind with such frequency and stark clarity that she sometimes worried about her sanity. The dreams were so vivid that she woke up gasping for breath. She wasn't sure which was worse, the visions of violence or the reenactments of their one night together, which didn't come as often but were just as intense.

She'd tentatively brought up the subject of dreams to Charity, who'd reminded her that the sex dream was fairly common. She hadn't had the nerve to ask about the other dreams.

Joan sighed and adjusted her pillow. Time to prepare for another restless night. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

***

Azazel turned the stolen lips of his host up into a smile. The child was coming along nicely. The young mother was disappointingly average, but the paternal contribution more than made up for it. Mary Campbell really had been the gift that kept on giving. The possibilities were tantalizing, even though they might cause him to adjust his timetable for a few years. After all, what did a couple of decades matter in the grand scheme of things?

This particular project was becoming far too interesting to place to the side. The deal had to be made before the child reached six months. After that, he would lose his window to taint the child until he became an adult, and it would be much more difficult to bend him to the demon's purposes.

Ava Wilson and Andy Gallagher would just have to wait. Watching Sam's little broodmare had just become his newest project. She would have to come out of this little sanctuary eventually.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

In New Mexico Joan met a young woman who was leaving her family behind to go to college and study music. She rode with her as far as Oklahoma, thankfully spending only two days in the blistering heat of the desert. Those two days were utterly miserable, partly because of a lack of air conditioning in the car. She spent the majority of the trip listening as the girl babbled excitedly about the things she would be learning and how she hoped to find someone who loved music as much as she did. They parted ways at a coffee shop, Joan staying long enough to watch Lynnie get up on the tiny stage with her guitar and sing one of her own songs before moving on.

She stayed in Stillwater, Oklahoma only long enough to catch a ride to a small town in Kansas with an older man who had just dropped off his daughter for her freshman year in college. John dropped her off in Colby on his way to Nebraska, leaving behind a phone number to call 'if she ever came out that way.'

There was a small grocery store in Colby that needed counter help while the owners' family pulled in the harvest, and Joan was there for three weeks, keeping an old-fashioned tally of the sales in the notebook that was kept behind the register. The Brown family welcomed her into their home and let her stay with them for the duration, and she reciprocated by watching the children in the evenings.

Once the harvest was over, Joan caught a bus eventually destined for Rifle, Colorado. She slept for a good portion of the trip, and in fact was sound asleep when the bus had a front-end collision with some idiot in a Saturn who was pulling out of the entrance driveway.

Later on, she wouldn't remember much of what happened before the hospital, other than a vague impression of a large black man with an incongruous Russian accent. The man would later introduce himself as Sanya, a wielder of a Sword of the Cross (Joan could hear the capitalization when he said it), and said that God had asked him to make sure she was safe until she got back onto the road. Sanya told her that the accident had thrown her forward and that she'd hit her head on the seat in front of her, giving her a concussion and splitting open the skin on her scalp, and consequently freaking out pretty much everyone on the bus with the blood. She got a good look at the stitches along her hairline and the vivid bruising on her forehead and decided that he'd been right.

They kept her in the hospital for a week, cautiously monitoring both her and the baby, before releasing her to Sanya's care. Sanya went with her as far as Duchesne, Utah until they parted ways. Joan programmed his number into her cell and headed toward the motel where she would be staying.

***

"You need to go to Wyoming," God told her as she hummed the song from the Zombie musical and folded towels in the hotel laundry room. This particular manager let her have her room for free as long as she did the motel housekeeping, but it was getting harder and harder to keep up the further along she got. God had shown up, in the form of an older lady, and pitched in a little. She should have known He was getting ready to ask her to do something.

"Any particular place in Wyoming?" She had been in six states over the last nine weeks; Wyoming would make number seven.

"A little town called Cooper. There's a restaurant at the edge of town that needs a waitress." The woman stacked the clean towels on the shelf where they belonged before turning back to Joan and resting a hand on her shoulder. "That's where your baby is going to be born."

"Cooper, Wyoming," Joan repeated, struggling up from her folding chair.

"And Joan?" The woman smiled at her, her expression sympathetic. "You need to hitchhike. Don't take the bus or train."

Joan looked down at her belly, then up at God. "You _suck_," she said, rolling her eyes and heading for the door.

She packed her bag with the efficiency of long practice and notified the manager that she was leaving. He gave her some money for her work, which she wasn't expecting, and told her to take care of herself before burying himself back in his book. Joan made sure her shoes were tied, which took a little bit of effort, and then pointed herself in the general direction of Wyoming.

She was huffing and out of breath before she went a mile, even at a slow walk, so she stopped for a rest at a wide spot on the road. There were a handful of vehicles pulled over for similar reasons, but she ignored them. God would make the right car stop for her, so there was no reason to approach people for a ride. The safest thing to do was trust God. She'd learned that much since she'd left the Carpenters.

Once she was rested, she started out again. This time she moved even slower and carefully, hoping to pace herself and make it a little farther before she had to stop again. She made it a mile and a half further down the road and sat down outside the guard rail. At this rate, she would barely make Wyoming by Christmas. The high elevation was killing what little remained of her stamina. There wasn't much traffic on the road, and what was there had blown past. "You're not making this easy," she said, rubbing her belly. Then she hauled herself up and kept on down the road.

It went on this way for about six miles before an RV pulled off the road ahead of her and a tiny woman with snow-white hair hopped out. "Honey, you need a ride?"

Joan nodded gratefully. "Yes, please." She had been getting ready to step off the road for another rest and was sweaty and out of breath despite the chill in the late November air. She trudged forward, and the woman opened up the door and helped her inside with surprising strength.

"You shouldn't be out here in your condition," the woman said, guiding Joan to a seat.

Joan shrugged out of her backpack and sat down, too tired to argue. "I need to get somewhere."

The RV pulled back onto the road smoothly as the older lady bustled around the kitchenette. "You want something to drink?"

"Could I have some water?"

"Sure thing." She brought over two bottles of water and handed one to Joan before sitting down next to her. "My name's Beulah. That's my husband Elmer." The rail-thin man driving smiled and gave her a little wave.

"I'm Joan." She smiled back and then drank some of her water. "Thank you for stopping."

"Oh, it's no problem. We've got plenty of space and time. Going up to our son's house for Thanksgiving, and if we get there too early my daughter-in-law will think we're hovering. You're welcome to ride with us as far as you need to go."

"I'm going to Cooper, Wyoming."

"Wyoming!" Beulah's eyebrows shot up toward her white cloud of hair. "Honey, were you planning on walking all the way to Wyoming?"

"If I had to. I couldn't take the bus or a train."

"What's waiting for you in Wyoming?"

"That's where I'm going to have my baby."

"You got family there?"

"No. It's hard to explain. It's just something I have to do." Joan leaned back in her bolted-down seat, exhausted, and the older woman frowned.

"Why don't you come to the back and lie down," she suggested. She lead the way to the tiny bed at the back of the RV and helped Joan lie down despite the girl's half-hearted protest. She was asleep not long after her head hit the pillow.

Joan woke up disoriented, and it took a moment for her panic to die down as she remembered where she was. She could feel the slight sway of the vehicle moving down the road as she climbed out of the bed and stumbled back out into the common area. Elmer was standing at the kitchenette making instant coffee. "Birdie needed a pick-me-up," he said quietly. Joan had the feeling that he did almost everything quietly.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

The man nodded. "She wants to talk with you for a while. Better go now."

Joan took care of business and then made her way to the front of the RV. Beulah was guiding the large vehicle down the road with the ease of long familiarity as Joan settled into the passenger seat. "Buckle up," the old woman said. "No sense taking chances."

Joan obediently fastened the seat belt the way Patricia had told her to, a little disheartened at how far she had to pull to adjust it. She hadn't been in a vehicle with a seat belt since she'd left the Carpenters, and she'd done some growing since then. "Thank you for the ride," she said again. "And for letting me sleep."

Beulah nodded, the fine lines on her face crinkling a little as she smiled. "I remember what it was like. Any sleep you could get was welcome." She took a sip of coffee, keeping her eyes on the road. "How much longer you got, honey?"

"Two weeks," Joan sighed.

"And the father?"

"Not around." Joan winced and leaned back as little feet found their way between the bottom two ribs. "Easy on the ribcage, kiddo," she said quietly, rubbing her belly. "I need it."

"Well, Elmer and I pulled out the map, and it turns out we go right past Cooper on our way to Andy's house. It's about six hours from here. You're welcome to ride along with us. Elmer's a wonderful man, but he's not much of a conversationalist, and I could use the company."

"Wow," said Joan. "That's . . .that's really nice of you. Are you sure?"

"Of course I am, honey. You just help keep me entertained while we go. You watch much TV?

"Not for a while. I've been a little too busy."

"Me too. I love to read, though. What was the last book you read?" And they were off. Beulah and Joan talked about everything from books to music to food (that topic being inspired by Joan's sudden craving for tuna) for the next few hours. They stopped for gas and Elmer switched as the driver after about three hours, and the two women moved back to the kitchenette. Beulah kept talking as she heated up some soup for the two of them, having switched the conversation to everything she remembered about taking care of babies. Joan was mostly talked out by this time, but she listened avidly as she ate her soup, occasionally asking questions that would start the woman off on a rabbit trail of stories.

The hours flew past, and before Joan knew it the RV was pulling into a parking lot. "Here we are," Elmer announced, parking the vehicle and turning off the engine.

Joan gathered her bag and followed her surprise benefactors out into the cold sunshine. She hugged them both, feeling awkward and huge and clumsy with Beulah's delicate bones beneath her hands. "Thank you," she said, feeling tears well up. Stupid hormones. "Thank you so much. I don't know how I would have gotten here if you hadn't stopped and picked me up."

"It was no trouble, honey." Beulah smiled, the creases on her face deepening. "You take care of yourself and the baby, and maybe we'll see each other again someday."

Joan nodded, sniffling a little. She stood outside and watched as the couple climbed back into their vehicle, waving as they pulled away. When the RV had turned a corner and disappeared from sight, she went inside the restaurant and set about getting a month-long job. She would be spending Thanksgiving and her birthday here.

It wasn't until she checked into a motel room that night and unpacked her bag that Joan found the envelope of money. She cried with thanksgiving and relief and encouragement. She did have a lot to be thankful for.

And she never learned that Beulah and Elmer had traveled four hours out of their way to drop her off in Cooper.

***

Azazel, nicknamed the 'Yellow-eyed Demon' by the Winchesters, could have screamed in frustration. He ended up just killing a happy family because they were in his way. The woman… the not-yet-damned woman pregnant with the powerful Winchester male had vanished from his senses. She was still alive, as was the child, but…

_He_

_Couldn't _

_Find_

_Them_.

They were hidden from him. The knowledge taunted him. It made him even more violent and full of rage.

The boy was too powerful, or would be. If Azazel tainted him as he had done so many others, he would win in the end. If he didn't and the boy survived, it spelled the end for Azazel.

He had to find them. They couldn't hide forever. The mother was defenseless. He yearned to gut her.

He licked his lips. He would see her dying on a ceiling soon. Very, very soon.

Very, very soon. He could be patient. Time was on his side.

Soon.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam was consumed with finding them another job. He had combed all the local papers and his laptop searching for anything that fell in their line of work. He had to keep busy and at the moment, nothing was jumping out at him as supernatural. He ignored Dean when he sat down with a pair of beers.

"That cute little co-ed on the east coast, the one you 'talked' to for hours, how long ago was that?"

Sam grunted. He didn't want to listen to Dean commenting on the last time he got laid.

"How long?" There was steel in Dean's voice that said he was not going to stop until Sam answered.

"I don't know." Sam glared at his brother, who was glaring right back. "Nine months, maybe?"

"How careful were you in bed?"

Sam shook his head in shock. "You and I don't talk about sex, remember? Ever since you tried to give me the 'birds and the nest' talk that went horribly wrong."

"I told you to keep it covered. That, I know I did and she didn't seem to be the type to sleep around."

Sam suddenly put together all the questions Dean had asked. He whirled in his seat and glanced over the crowd. The young, pregnant girl was easy to see. Joan was a waitress. She looked tired and huge. Her feet were swollen and her belly was straining the material of her top, and the apron she was wearing didn't quite cover her completely, and in addition to this she had the remnants of some pretty spectacular bruising on her forehead and a neat row of stitches along her hairline, over her right eye. Her misery was resulting in a lot of pity tips.

She seemed just as alone as the night they had met.

Sam looked at his brother and Dean's opinion was loud in his eyes: Winchesters do their duty. This was Sam's FUBAR, Sam had to make it right.

Sam didn't pause. He walked over to her and reached for her tray just after she had emptied it for her patrons. "Joan?"

Brown eyes flew up to his. Her hands protectively covered her belly, to protect it from him.

The baby.

Dean was right, the baby was his. A very cynical, cruel voice asked Sam why Joan was the one still walking around while the beloved Jessica had died on the ceiling. "When do you get off work?"

"Not soon enough," she muttered.

Sam waited.

She finally glanced at a clock and sighed. "One hour and seventeen minutes."

Sam winced. "Should you be…," she glared and Sam stopped that sentence. "We'll talk afterward." He stared at her until she finally agreed.

She started to step away, realized that Sam still had her tray and snatched it back. The show of spirit encouraged him, though he was careful not to let her notice. He walked back to their table and realized that Dean had moved all their shit. His brother had taken up post in a different corner, one where they would be able to keep an eye on Joan as she made her trips to and from the kitchen and even the bathroom. He hadn't brought the beers with him, determined to be sober and aware of any developing problems.

Sam was tempted to go get the drinks for himself. Surely that would make this situation easier to accept. In the end, he decided that he wanted to be the one talking to Joan and not let it be alcohol. Alcohol, if he remembered correctly, was at least partially responsible for the situation he found himself in. Sam plunked down beside his brother.

Dean promptly stood. "I'm going to get a I_piece_/I. You have a preference?"

Sam waved a hand to signify that he'd accept whatever gun Dean brought into the establishment. Neither paused to consider that guns were strictly forbidden in any place that served alcohol. Dean returned quickly and casually put the gun in Sam's hand under the table. He had one hidden at his back and two knives hidden on his body.

They both watched Joan bustle around the tables. Finally, Dean asked. "So what's her name?"

"Joan."

Dean nodded. "She probably won't like me calling her Joanie, will she?"

"No."

They waited, tense. Nothing happened. Joan was exhausting herself; she seemed to droop more with every passing minute. She got nervous with Sam's eyes on her and she started making mistakes and getting clumsy.

"I'm going to be the cool Uncle Dean," his brother announced suddenly.

Sam buried his head in his hands. "Just don't tell Joan that yet, please."

"Hey, I have some class."

Finally, Joan's shift was over, or rather, her boss had noticed that she was spilling more things than not and sent her home. Sam automatically followed her and let Dean stay behind to gather the computer.

Sam caught up with her twenty steps outside of the bar. "Joan!"

She paused in her step. She had just managed to connect most of the buttons on her winter coat despite the cold wind that had been whipping the flaps every which way. She had been walking past all of the cars and toward the road. "Joan, please!"

She finally whirled. "What?"

Sam fumbled for words. "Can we give you a ride?"

"You don't know where I'm going," she challenged.

"Where are you going?" Sam obliged her by asking.

She reddened slightly. Her eyes dropped. "I'm staying at the motel."

"Now isn't that convenient?" Dean joined the conversation. He had the computer bag in one hand and the other behind his back, with his gun hidden from Joan's sight. "So are we."

"We can give you a ride," Sam repeated.

The brothers watched her consider it. They saw when her pride and her fear got the best of her. She was about to refuse even as she wrapped her arms around her belly as faint protection from the weather.

"Joanie," Dean ordered. "Get in the damn car."

Defiant, Joan crossed her arms over her chest. "No."

"Joan," Sam pleaded.

"Joan," a new voice echoed Sam's.

Joan warily glared at the new man. He was a punk Goth that neither one of the boys had noticed in the bar. "Get in the car," he said.

Dean had his gun pointed at the Goth. "Dude, go away."

The young man ignored Dean and his gun, Sam standing between him and Joan, and even the weather that he was ill-dressed for. "Joan. Trust me."

Joan wavered and then deflated. "I'm still not used to you saying that." She turned and dragged herself to the Impala. Sam followed closely. Dean kept an eye on the Goth.

"Protect her," the stranger told Dean as he watched Sam and Joan walk away. "It's time that it ends."

"What?" Uneasiness caused Dean to glance at Sam. When he turned back to the Goth, he was walking away, waving a hand over his shoulder. What the hell did that mean?

It was eerie. It was supernatural. It pinged on Dean's radar like nothing they had ever hunted. Dean jogged to his brother's side. "Let's get the hell out of here before he gets back."

Sam didn't seem to think anything was out of the ordinary. "It's nothing, Dean. He's probably benign, just a little strange. Calm down, please."

"He's not a tame lion," Joan muttered cryptically. "But he is good."

Joan was a little crazy. Why quote a movie now? Dean opened the backseat door for her and let Sam close it. Dean rushed to the driver's seat and peeled out of the parking lot. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror the whole way. No one followed them, or so it seemed.

Sam made one attempt at conversation, craning around in his seat to address Joan. "So, umm, you remember my brother Dean."

"Yeah."

She didn't say anything else, and Sam apparently couldn't come up with any other conversational gambits. After a minute or so of silence, Dean started fighting against the urge to hum Metallica. "Awkward," he muttered, earning him a glare from Sam.

Once at the motel, Dean pulled in directly across from the room the Winchester boys were staying. He was about to ask Joan how she felt, but noticed her looking longingly to the other end of the motel. Damn, he put the key into the ignition and started the Impala back up. "Which room is yours?"

"One-eighty."

At least it was on the ground floor, but it couldn't be any further from the management's office and the swimming pool. "Hey, have you been swimming?"

Joan had been in the midst of nodding when she glanced at Sam. She looked down at her belly and said, "No." Dean didn't need to understand women to know that she was embarrassed by how much her body had changed.

"Don't worry about Butthead," Dean said, hurrying to smooth out the edges. "He's going to be doing research. I'll be the one in the pool area to make sure you don't drown." He was also the one who would have the shotgun with rock salt there for protection.

"I don't need a lifeguard," she snapped.

"It's just smart…" Dean looked to Sam to comfort the pregnant, tired, hurting, hormonal female but his brother just acted shell-shocked. "You're asleep on your feet. I don't want you to nap in the pool."

Joan seemed to be softening, so Dean grinned and pushed. "Anyway, I need to go to the grocery store and get some stuff. You need anything; I could bring it to the pool?"

"Dill pickles," she said immediately. Joan dug into her pocket for her tip money. "Bananas, and bread."

Dean debated telling her to keep her money, but he didn't want another fight when he had just avoided the last one. In the end, he pocketed it. "No milk or anything?"

"I'm good."

"What about vitamins?" Sam finally asked.

"I've been good about that since I found out." Joan was both defensive and subdued in her remarks.

Dean smiled as brightly as he dared. "Good. I'll come walk you to the pool after shopping. Go put up your feet or something."

Joan awkwardly slid out of the backseat and waddled to her door. She glanced back once and then disappeared behind it. Dean waited one more moment before cuffing his brother upside the head.

"Ow! Shit, Dean."

"Get your shit together, Sam. One of us should have cased her room before she walked in there. She can't be alone for extended periods, especially not after dusk, which it is now. She trusts you more than she trusts me."

"You don't know that," Sam argued.

"A girl like that doesn't have sex with a guy she doesn't trust on some level."

Sam couldn't argue. He saw a table under an umbrella a hundred yards away. It would have a direct line of sight to Joan's door. "I'll be able to hear her scream from there." It also had the added bonus that Joan probably wouldn't be able to see him from her window. Sam grabbed his laptop and a gun.

Dean drove out of the parking lot and to the Super Mart to buy some swimming trunks and groceries. For themselves, he grabbed Lucky Charms®, milk, granola, trail mix, a couple candy bars, some apples and several big bags of salt. He had just found the bananas and was debating how many a girl would want when he got distracted by the baby clothes. He saw a tiny shirt, the kind with snaps by the butt that had writing on it that he couldn't resist. He bought it along with the items Joan had asked for.

The total was higher than he had expected but he couldn't use a credit card. If they were staying in town until the baby was born, they didn't want to get a rep for phony cards. He would have to hustle some pool or play some poker to get more cash for the duration. Maybe it was a good thing that there was no supernatural –'cept for that punk Goth- in the area. What was up with that guy anyway? He hadn't exhibited any of the signs of demon possession and he had told Joan to get into the Impala where she was safest. She knew him; Dean wondered if it was a supernatural guardian of some kind. He hoped it was, though that was being totally optimistic. Dean knew the baby would need as much protection as possible with their enemies.

Dean mulled over security concerns. Life would be easiest if Sam and Joan fell into each others' arms again, but neither one showed any indication that that would happen. Nights were going to be an issue. He wondered how long Joan planned to continue working. He wondered if there was any chance in hell of getting her to quit. If she quit, he and Sam could keep her up all night talking or swimming or something and let her sleep during the day.

He would have to scout out the hospital. He would need to find a way to get a gun past security fast. Joan looked like she was about to pop at any moment. He would need his guns in tiptop shape to stand guard. He'd be happiest if he'd be able to put her and the doctors behind a line of salt, but then that would raise red flags. Hell, that'd have the hospital calling the asylum people to put him in a padded room.

How were they going to convince Joan to put salt inside her door and by her window without her thinking they were crazy? Even if they managed that, how would they know that she did it right?

Dean pulled into the motel parking lot. The first thing he noticed was that Sam wasn't where he had left him. It was bitter cold outside, but nothing should have made his brother abandon his post. Dean immediately pulled out his cell phone and texted his brother: 'where r u?' It wouldn't do to be running around with his head cut off; Sam would have called him if there was an emergency. While he waited for a reply, Dean put the milk into the mini fridge in their room.

Sam finally texted back: 'managers office looking in 2 pool.' Dean made a face at the message. Joan hadn't waited for him; she was an independent little thing. He didn't know whether to admire her or curse her. He settled for grumbling under his breath. But if Joan was in the pool, Dean had some time for snooping. He grabbed his lock picking kit and the bag of salt and hurried to Joan's room.

It took him no time at all. He slipped in and promptly took off his shoes. He didn't want to track mud into the room that she'd notice. All in all, it was probably the cleanest motel room he had ever seen. The bed was made, which kinda made sense since she was a girl. There was a meager selection of food on top of the microwave, consisting of a box of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and three neatly stacked cans of tuna. He checked the dresser and saw Joan's one bag and few clothes neatly put away. There was also a knitted blanket, a tiny hat and booties waiting for the baby and just two other baby shirts with butt buttons. She didn't have much. It was reminiscent of how the Winchesters lived.

Speaking of which, he opened the salt carefully and poured a thick line right next to the window. Then he pulled up the carpet by the door and poured salt under that. He put the carpet back and stomped on it a few times. He stepped back and frowned at it. It did make a little lump, but it wasn't too noticeable and the door would still open and shut without much resistance. If all went well, Joan would be too distracted by Sam to notice such changes in her space.

He slipped into his shoes and hurried back to his motel room; Sam would be waiting on him. Dean quickly changed into his swimsuit and wrapped a gun in the motel's standard white towels. He needed his coat as protection from the cold. He grabbed Joan's three items and stuffed the baby t-shirt in with them. It was time to relieve Sam of guard duty.

Joan was floating on her back, staring up at the ceiling when Dean entered. She noticed him immediately and started treading water to hide her belly beneath the surface. Dean approved of her situational awareness but thought that her self-consciousness was just silly. He glanced through the glass door to the manager's office and visitor's lobby. His and Sam's eyes met and they nodded. Sam would concentrate on serious research where he was and Dean would take care of Joan.

Dean lifted the bag of groceries for Joan. She smiled slightly in thanks, then glanced at the pool rules with a sigh. She returned to swimming the thirty feet that was the width of the deep end of the pool, being careful to keep her face and the stitches there out of the water. Dean couldn't figure out what was the problem until he read the rules. (He had never bothered to read them before.) Oh, there was supposed to be no food or drink in the pool. That was stupid, if she was only going to eat a snack.

He grabbed a banana and waited until she returned to his side of the pool before waving it in her face. "You know you wanna," he tempted.

She shook her head, no. "I'll be getting out soon enough."

"Why?" Dean asked rudely. "You looked relaxed in there. You've done a bit a swimming."

Joan nodded. "I took lessons and was on the dive team for a little while."

It was the first personal information she had offered Dean, so he was quick to continue the line of conversation. "What happened?"

"The team captain made fun of my little brother."

Dean frowned, "so you quit?" He could admire reacting to someone harassing a brother, but quitting seemed sissy.

"Nope, got kicked off."

Dean grinned slowly. "You made the captain pay?"

Joan shrugged, but nodded more than anything else.

"Good girl."

Joan rolled her eyes and returned to her almost-graceful laps. She was at home in the water. He and Sam would have to start planning ahead and finding motels with swimming pools, no matter how small, if/ now that Joan and the baby would be traveling with them. It would be good post-birth exercise, wouldn't it?

Dean wondered about the baby. "Do you know if it's a boy or girl?" he blurted out.

"A boy," she said softly.

Dean was cool with that. "Have you picked a name?"

Joan nodded slowly, but didn't offer it. She tensed up until she realized that Dean wasn't going to ask the next obvious question.

"Why did you pick your name?" he asked instead. He really wanted to know the name, but he had a feeling asking for it would close down the conversation.

Joan completed two laps before answering. Dean waited, and wondered when he had gained enough patience to deal with this scrap of a girl.

"My dad," she finally said.

Perversely, Dean perked. "He's dead?" Did they have something in common?

"No. But he's my dad."

Dean understood more than he thought he should.

Sam rushed in from the lobby area, looking worried. "Who's your OB/GYN?" he asked.

"God," Joan snapped.

"Good," Sam responded. "You're not attached to any one doctor. We'll move to the next town. That hospital has a much better child survival rate."

Joan went white with fear at that news, but she was already shaking her head. "No. I'm staying here. I've got my job here."

"You could quit," Dean suggested.

Joan sent him a withering glare. "I am not quitting work until my baby is born. And my baby is going to be born at the local hospital."

"Joan," Sam groaned. "Why? You care about the baby, why would you risk it at all?"

"I'm not risking _him_," said Joan. "If there's a problem with the hospital, then you better figure out why and fix it, 'cause that's where we're going."

Dean was noticing the stress lines reappearing on Joan's face and once again he was playing mediator between Sam and his family. "It's not something that needs to be decided right this instant. When are you due?"

"Sunday," Sam and Joan chorused.

Joan looked at her baby's father in askance.

Sam raised his hands slightly. "I can do that kind of math."

Joan accepted the explanation and went back to her laps. Dean relaxed now that the storm had mostly blown over.

"So now that we all agree, what day of the week is it today, anyway?"

"Thursday," Joan answered. The Winchester boys didn't like how close they were cutting it.

"Dean," Sam changed the subject, speaking quietly enough that it wouldn't reach Joan's ears. "Go see if you can find the source of the problem at the hospital. There're a lot of deaths at night."

Normally, Dean would have thrown a fit at being given an order by Sam, but he had planned on visiting it anyway. He did, in turn, order Joan out of the pool. "You're turning into a prune." Joan looked just as rebellious as Dean felt, but he knew how to deal with that. "You're hungry anyways and I've got bananas out here."

Joan procrastinated but, she too, soon relented. She climbed out and stumbled a bit knowing that both the boys were studying her body as it was revealed in the wet t-shirt and maternity shorts. She hurried to wrap herself in a towel. Then she reached for the grocery bag and pulled out a banana and the jar of pickles, studiously ignoring the Winchester brothers as she opened the jar and peeled the banana. She had taken a bite of each before noticing the fabric in the bag. She pulled it out and looked at Dean incredulously.

Sam rolled his eyes at the print on the shirt: 'I got my good looks from my uncle.'

Joan burst into tears. Dean was more than happy to escape and leave his brother to finally take care of his mess. He took two steps outside of the pool house and shivered in his dry shorts. He was ever so glad that he hadn't jumped into the pool. He did return to the pool house and shucked out of his leather jacket.

Sam was surprised to see him. He wasn't succeeding in calming Joan down yet.

Dean motioned to the jacket. "It's cold out here. She shouldn't be out here in wet clothes with no coat. And Sam, my towel's over there."

Sam caught the hidden meaning.

Joan cried even harder. Dean beat a hasty retreat; the hospital was a much better assignment anyway. He hurried to get dressed into something warmer. Before he climbed into the Impala, he did check on Sam and Joan. He was relieved that they were sitting next to each other and talking. Joan had quit crying- definitely an improvement.

But they weren't touching and that worried Dean. Damn it, Dean wanted a chance to feel the boy moving in Joan's belly and that wouldn't happen until after Sam got his act together. Dean brooded a bit on the way to the hospital. It was getting pretty dark. If the problem was within their normal area of expertise, he would have a better chance of seeing it now. He had no idea what he was going to say to the personnel working there. If Joan was serious about having the baby there, he couldn't lie too much.

***

Joan caught one quick glimpse of Dean's horrified face before he hurried out of the pool area, this time without his jacket. She knew the feeling. She had tried so hard not to cry in front of Sam, but that onesie stuffed in with her groceries had been the last straw of a very difficult day. Sam patted her shoulder awkwardly in what she figured was an attempt to comfort her, bringing out a watery laugh with her tears.

After a minute or so, she had forced some semblance of control on her emotions. "Sorry about that," she said, edging away from Sam a little.

He took the hint and dropped his hands. "I'm pretty sure you're entitled," he said wryly.

Joan shook her head and looked down at the small piece of cloth clutched in her hand. "This is the only gift anyone's gotten for the baby," she explained, looking up at him. "The other things I have were meant for other babies first. But this was picked out just for him." She was pretty sure this wasn't something his brother would typically do just to get on her good side. Dean was honestly interested in the baby, already laying claim as his uncle, and Joan couldn't explain how much that meant without opening up some painful wounds. She looked at the onesie in her hands again and sighed. "It's the wrong size," she said, and for some reason this almost started another spate of tears. She decided to laugh instead. "I guess he'll have to grow into it." The young woman stood up, took a moment to find her balance, and put her things back in the grocery bag.

Sam stood up as well, looming over her, and took the bag away. "Joan," he began, and she looked up at him.

"No," she said. "I know we need to talk, but I just . . .can't right now. I'm going to my room. I'm going to take a shower and I'm going to put on some dry clothes, and probably eat something other than a banana. Then we can talk."

"Fair enough," said Sam. He reached for his brother's jacket and held it out for her. Joan reluctantly unwrapped the towel, knowing that the wet T-shirt was clinging to her body, and hurried into the coat, flipping her wet hair out of the neck and avoiding looking at Sam. She picked up her room key and slipped on her shoes (even the little bit of swimming had reduced the swelling in her feet and ankles, thank _God_) before reaching for her groceries.

Sam held onto the bag, along with his brother's carefully wrapped towel bundle. Joan was willing to bet that there was a weapon tucked in there, and that made her a little uneasy. It wasn't that she thought he meant her harm, exactly, but what her father did for a living made her very aware of all the things that could happen when weapons were involved. "I can carry my stuff," she said, reaching for her bag.

"I've got it," Sam insisted. He hurried in front of her and opened the door, then followed her to her room on the other side of the motel. At first she was worried he would follow her inside, but he stopped at the door and handed her the bag.

She closed the door with a sigh of relief. She needed some time to deal with this development, and she couldn't do it when she was being hounded by Winchesters. After she locked the door and put away her groceries, she carefully set Dean's leather jacket on the room's chair and went to take her shower, grabbing the roll of medical tape and protecting the line of stitches first. Getting these out in a few days would be almost as much relief as giving birth.

Her mind was working furiously as she went through the motions of getting clean. There was so much to process that it took a while for her to pick a coherent pattern. God, it seemed, had once again thrown her a curve ball.

The dreams she had been having were real. The cast on Sam's right arm confirmed that; she had seen him break it weeks ago, shortly after she left the Carpenters. She had quit believing in coincidence while she was still in high school. That meant that the Winchesters were ghost hunters, good ones who routinely saved peoples' lives from things most wouldn't believe in. And God had put her right in their path.

She was a little angry about that, but there was no point in railing at God after the fact. Obviously he had put her in this place so the Winchesters would find her, just like he moved her from Chicago when Molly was hurt. Sometimes she hated the big picture. Being around Sam was just one big emotional rollercoaster waiting to happen, and she wasn't sure she could go through it again. It would be much easier to just keep going the way she had been. Joan squelched the voice reminding her that easier wasn't always better and rinsed the conditioner out of her hair.

She toweled off quickly and got dressed. If half of what she'd seen in her dreams was true, neither one of them was especially gifted with patience.

***

Dean walked in to the hospital feeling rather lost and he must have looked it, because one of the nurses immediately walked up to him as he was figuring out ways to bring in a shotgun readied with rock salt.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah… Uhm, my sister-in-law is this big with my first nephew." Dean pantomimed Joan's big belly. "We were trying to get home in time for the birth, but she's getting queasy just looking at my car, so it's looks like we're stuck here… Not that getting stuck here is a bad thing or anything, but…" Dean raised his hands in surrender. "We all tried to talk her out of a road trip this close to her due date, but when Joan gets an idea into her head…"

The nurse smiled. She was kind in the matronly way. "It's not the strangest thing I've heard of a pregnant woman doing."

"Oh good, I was beginning to worry about my nephew's sanity."

The nurse went straight for the main desk and started picking up papers and then packets of papers. "You probably have already filled this out…" she looked at Dean's horrified face and chuckled. "Rather, your brother or your sister-in-law has. This is a Birth Plan and other needed information such as insurance information, blood type, risk factors, etcetera. It helps everyone if we know this beforehand."

Dean looked at all the papers. "Shit," he muttered. He looked around. "Can I see where… it… all will happen?"

"Of course. We often do tours and if your sister-in-law calls, we'd be happy to put her at ease and introduce her to our maternity wing personnel. It will help if our people aren't total strangers at the time for delivery. I'm Lisa Richard, and if you have any questions you can always call and ask for me and I'll answer the best I can."

The nurse started leading the way. Dean surreptitiously brought out his EMF meter to check for supernatural activity. It buzzed a bit in the maternity wing, but then topped out in the nursery and pediatric unit. "Damn it."

"What's wrong?" the nurse asked.

"I…uh… I'm getting a… bad vibe."

The nurse swiveled her head nervously. Her hands shook. "Not again," she muttered. Then she attempted to retain her professional demeanor. "Maybe you should try to talk your sister-in-law into going to the next town over, if you're that uncomfortable. It's only an hour away."

"She's stubborn, ma'am." Dean hesitated and then tried to get some information. This nurse had seen some unexplained things recently; it showed on her face. Would she admit to it though? "What happens at dark around here?"

The nurse shook her head. Her eyes weighed Dean's interest and sanity. Apparently, he passed the test. "We don't know," she finally said. "We've doubled the attending personnel and still… children die."

"Did anything traumatic ever happen in this hospital?"

The nurse snorted. "This _is_ a hospital."

"I know, I mean like a shoot out or a really disturbed personality?"

She shook her head. "It all started five years ago next month, he…"

"Richard?" A new voice interrupted. The nurse turned her head, looking guilty. This woman was obviously a supervisor. She looked Dean up and down dismissively. "Who is this?"

Dean held out his hand with a smile. "John Winchester."

"His sister-in-law will probably be a patient within the next couple of days," Nurse Richard explained.

"Than she should make an appointment for a tour," the supervisor advised.

"I'll definitely be suggesting it to her, ma'am."

"Richard, it's time for the evening meds."

Richard nodded and then smiled good-bye to Dean. "Maybe I'll see you again, Mr. Winchester."

Dean smiled in reply. "You probably will, ma'am. Getting Joan to do anything other than what she wants is not worth the effort, especially since she never changes her mind anyway."

Dean walked out with the papers and a clue as to what was causing the problem. Someone's bones were going to be salted and burned very, very, very soon. He had a time frame to work from and a possible gender to narrow down suspects.

He called Sam and ordered him to start hacking in to the hospital records or checking out the local papers around the time frame given by the nurse. Dean, meanwhile, was driving to a couple other towns to fleece its less savory residents out of a lot of cash. He had pool to hustle and poker to win. He glanced down at the papers beside him and realized that he was going to have to stop at the motel first. It was going to take Joan days to fill out all the paperwork. He wondered if it was enough to keep her from her crappy job.

Dean could hope. He knocked at the door and kept an eye on both the window and the peephole to make sure Joan was taking every safety precaution. She did. She even kept the chain hooked to the door as she looked out. She looked tired, but she was dry now. She even looked warm as she passed his leather jacket out to him.

"Is this what you need?" she asked.

Dean accepted the jacket and handed her the stack of papers. "This is to make it easier to get into the hospital when my nephew makes his appearance. You'll need days to fill it out. You better call up your boss and tell him that you can't make it in tomorrow."

Joan smirked at him. "You are not subtle."

He had thought that he had been. Next time, he'd have to try harder. Or maybe not. "Waste of time."

She flipped through the paperwork. "I've done this once. I'll just copy it over."

"You have?"

Joan nodded. "Well, except for the medical information from the father's side."

"Sam's in our room. You can get the information from…" Dean glanced that way and then stopped and stared. Sam was walking toward him and Joan carrying both dufflebags. "What the…"

Joan took the chain off the door to lean out and see what had caught his attention. She realized the implications first. "You don't have do this," she was quick to tell Sam as he approached.

Sam tried to placate her. "We're three doors down now. I don't want you calling an ambulance or trying to get to our room across the parking lot when you're in labor."

"Good idea." Dean said to present a united front. He saw that she also had her cell phone in hand and he had an even better idea. He stole the phone from her.

"Hey!"

"I'm just putting our cell numbers in here on speed dial so that you can get a hold of us at any time."

"An ambulance will work just fine."

"I drive faster," Dean promised.

"And I'd like to be there," Sam said quietly.

Joan stared at him in surprise.

"Please?"

"I… I…"

"You've done all the work thus far," Sam fumbled to say. "I want to help, if I could- can. I don't want you to go through this alone, if I can help it. I want to be a part of it. It is half my fault."

Dean knew that his presence wasn't helping this advancement to his cause, so he turned on his heel and walked back to the Impala to finish putting numbers into her phone while his brother pleaded his case. He also took advantage of the time and found Joan's number to add to the brothers' own contact lists. He was hopeful when he realized that Sam's number was already on Joan's speed dial. Dean had to respect the girl for not calling before, even when he was angry that she hadn't. She made the decision on her own and she had been determined to follow through on her own.

He looked up and had to grin. Joan was letting Sam touch her belly. Sam looked as awestruck as Dean felt.

They looked like a family for a moment there. Dean caught a wisp of a memory of Dad and Mom in the same pose. Oddly enough the memory didn't use their old house as a backdrop but somewhere else. Mom and Dad looked so young and unburdened, even if Dad looked more like a Marine than any of Dean's other memories.

There was a chance, just a chance, of this working out.

That was good enough for Dean.

They just had to keep Joan and the baby alive. They had to kill that demon once and for all. Dean remained in the car until Sam was ushering Joan inside, out of the cold. Then he returned Joan's phone and went looking for a way to get easy money.

***

She hadn't known quite what to expect, but this had caught her flat-footed. First Dean had shown up with the paperwork for the local hospital (which she really should have gotten, but had procrastinated on. She was strangely unwilling to stray from the city limits), casually laying claim to the baby as his nephew again. Then Sam followed up with his earnest request, which left her floored. Dean had retreated, leaving his brother to watch her with something close to a plea in his eyes, and she didn't know what to do. While she'd had help along the way, no one had stepped up and asked to be involved like Sam just had. Didn't he realize what he was asking her?

The baby chose that moment to make his presence known, pressing little limbs outward and pulling her attention away from his father. "We woke him up," she said, dropping one of her hands from the paperwork Dean had brought over and resting it where she could feel the movement. He repeated his actions, evidently pleased that his mother was paying attention to him. Joan looked up at Sam, and the longing on his face made her want to cry. She remembered how he'd said that his brother and father were the only family he had, and it suddenly clicked that if the dreams were real, his father had died a few months ago. He and Dean were alone in what they did. Compassion made her take the next step. "Do you want to feel him moving? He doesn't exactly perform on command."

Sam nodded hesitantly and placed his hand next to hers so gently that she could barely feel it. When William moved again, she grabbed Sam's hand and moved it into place. They stayed that way until the movements subsided, his long warm fingers following the motion and fascination written on his face. Then a cold wind gusted up and made her shiver, and Sam ushered her back into her room.

Sam waited until Joan had a blanket over her shoulders and a cup of instant hot chocolate in her hands before he asked the question that had apparently been plaguing him. "Why didn't you let me know?"

She glanced at the cell phone sitting on the table. Dean had brought it back shortly after she'd gone back inside. Sam's phone number had been on the contacts list since she'd bought the prepaid cell that had replaced the phone her parents paid for. Joan couldn't count how many times her finger had hovered over the send button, but the same thing always stopped her. "When I told my parents that I was pregnant, my dad told me to take care of it. 'Fix this mistake,' like I'd put a dent in the car or something. After I said I wouldn't do it, he told me he wouldn't help me and he walked away." She clutched the Styrofoam cup and looked away, determined not to cry in front of Sam again today. "I couldn't take another rejection, Sam. It was easier to not open myself up for one."

There was silence for several long moments. Joan didn't dare to look up at the man in front of her, instead keeping her attention fixed on the beverage slowly cooling in her hands. She was surprised when he reached over and touched her arm. "That's not going to happen," he said. He smiled at her, reminding Joan of why she'd been attracted to him in the first place, and changed the subject.

"What do you need to know to fill out this paperwork?"

***

When Dean returned to the motel room with six hundred dollars cash at five in the morning, Sam was asleep at the table. Dean wanted to join him in dreamland. For some strange reason he had relaxed once he had passed the Cooper city limits sign. He was less worried, enough that he I_could_/I sleep. Instead, he checked the computer to see if his brother had found the bones of the hospital ghost. He was distracted by the picture leaning against the monitor. The picture was about three inches square and it featured an orange cloud-blob thing.

Dean picked it up and twisted it this way and that. "What the hell?" He hoped it wasn't some sort of art thing.

"It's your nephew," Sam grumbled without opening his eyes.

"My nephew's an orange blob?" Dean snorted. "Dude, what is wrong with your sperm?"

Sam's head came up and he glared at his brother. He snatched the picture back and pointed to various places. "It's a 3D/4D picture. It's orange because of the frequency of the waves used to find him. Here're his eyes, nose, fist."

Dean blinked as the features became apparent. "Dude," he breathed. "He's going to look just like you."

"You think so?" There weren't a lot of pictures from that time in the Winchester's life.

"Hell, yeah." Dean stared at the picture for a couple of moments. "I'd know that pout anywhere. It got me into tons of trouble."

Sam ignored the implied insult. "Joan let me borrow it. I told her that it didn't seem real to me and so she showed me this. It was taken ten weeks ago."

"Da-amn."

"Kinda crazy, huh?"

Dean stared at the picture for a little while longer. Sam was pleased with the fascination; this was a normal uncle reaction.

"Dude," Dean said again. "How the hell are we going to keep them safe?"

And the supernatural world came crashing in. Though, how normal was it to run into a one-night stand three days before your baby's due? If he hadn't checked Joan for demon possession last time, he would have been definitely checking it now. Dean seemed more inclined than Sam to accept this at face value.

But then again, he wasn't face to face with the idea of a child to care for and protect in this very cruel world. Joan had never contacted Sam after, even though he had left a phone number. She had planned on doing this without him, they had just happened to cross paths. (Sam hated coincidences these days.) And she couldn't protect their child against a demon that she knew nothing about. He and Dean I_needed_/I to do this, there just was no other option.

It was irrational, Sam knew, but he hated Joan just a little bit for changing his reason for wanting the demon dead. Before, it was to get revenge for Jess… and some for his mother. Now, Sam was frantic to get rid of the demon to protect Joan and the baby. It wasn't right that a one-night stand replaced the months with Jess.

Sam's anger withered whenever he looked at Joan. She was in misery, but she tried not to complain. Sam knew that she was without her tight knit family. She had dropped out of school and left her part-time job. Sam had practically done the same not long ago. She was surrounded by strangers and being bossed around by Dean all because she believed in her choice. Joan had sacrificed a lot for those beliefs.

Sam just hoped that it wouldn't get her killed.

"I don't know," he finally said. "But at least we've got a chance now. Can you imagine if we'd decided to go one more town over?"

His brother nodded, the idea having apparently occurred to him as well. "Why didn't she let you know?"

Sam hesitated. What Joan had told him felt private, and it had been hard to get her to trust him after everything she'd been through. But Dean deserved to know. Hell, this might even come under the heading of needing to know in order to keep them both safe. "Her father told her to get an abortion. Kicked her out when she refused. Joan . . .Joan said she couldn't take another rejection. Guess she was afraid I'd do the same."

"Shit." Dean looked furious, and Sam couldn't blame him. To Dean, family was everything, the only thing that was really important.

"Yeah." There wasn't much to be said to that. What was truly amazing was that she was planning on naming the baby after her father anyway. Yet more proof that the Winchesters weren't the only family that was a little screwed up.

"So," Dean bluntly changed the subject. "Have you found the bastard I need to salt and burn yet for the hospital?"

"I have three options."

"Three?"

"Dean, the only hint you gave me was five years ago next month, meaning December."

"And male," Dean argued.

"Even a small hospital like this one has a couple hundred male patients a month, and December is busy for all hospitals."

"Why?"

"Family get-togethers."

"See, little brother? Other families are more screwed up than us."

"Few of them go hunting ghosts together. We've spent our fair share of Christmases in the hospital for one of us, or just getting out. Both of us have nearly died on Christmas. This many near-death experiences… Dean, we are screwed up."

"But not that bad. We have each other."

Sam couldn't argue too much. "You don't regret our childhood one iota, do you?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I see all those people in the bars and you know what ninety percent have in common?" Dean didn't even wait for Sam to formulate an answer. "They have nothing, no purpose. Houses, nine-to-five job? That's nothing. They don't know why they're here. I've never had that problem. I know why I am here and that's to dispose of as many crazy, dangerous supernatural beings as possible before I die."

Sam breathed slowly. He never had felt that same burning purpose growing up. He hadn't gained it until Jess died and even then, it was a sense of revenge, not purpose. Purpose was healthy, revenge was not: just look at his father.

"What about Joan?" Sam finally asked.

"What about Joan?"

"This isn't her purpose."

"Her purpose is keeping that baby alive."

"In cruddy motel rooms and apartments?"

"If that's what it takes. Joan is focused. And she's been living in that cruddy motel room for the last two weeks."

"How do you know that?"

"I asked the manager. She paid in cash, two weeks in advance. She's been moving around, you can tell by looking at her stuff. I checked out her belongings when I put down salt at the window and door. She's been living out of one bag. Sam, I think Joan knows something is following her. She won't have a problem continuing after the baby's born."

"Does she think it's someone, or something?"

"I don't know, ask her. She's your girl."

"Dean," Sam got this deer-in-the-headlights look. "Don't start."

"Start what?" he asked innocently.

"Matchmaking."

"Dude, I don't matchmake," Dean protested.

"Remember Sarah? Yeah, you do. Joan and I… weren't like that."

"Well, I know you liked her quite a bit." Dean waggled his eyebrows.

"That was nine months ago."

"So? She hasn't changed much, except for the fact that she's carrying your baby around her middle."

"Dean, I was drunk."

"You were just a little tipsy, unless you became a total lightweight while at college. You were attracted to her. And why not? She's exactly your type now a days: dark hair, dark eyes, smart, stubborn as hell."

Sam shook his head.

Dean huffed. "Well then, you tell me what attracted you?"

"Dean!"

Dean folded his arms and got that bulldog look on his face. There was no way Dean was going to let this go. "Why were you attracted to Joan nine months ago?"

"She was lonely," Sam finally answered. Outside of the moment, it was difficult to explain exactly how it had all happened. He shrugged. "She said that she was going through some stuff that no one else seemed to be going through and it was just after I accepted my visions and found out that I could move things with my mind. I had watched Max Miller kill himself. That was hopelessness. Joan… she had the exact opposite. She had this _hope_. She _knew_ that whatever she was going through would be okay. It didn't matter that no one understood."

"Purpose," Dean summarized. He was such a pain in the ass when he thought that he was right. "Were you hoping that it'd rub off on you?"

"Dean!"

"You were, weren't you?"

"Dean, whatever." He chuckled in remembrance. "That and she laughed when I 'accidentally' spritzed her with holy water."

"You spritzed a one-night stand with holy water?"

"You don't?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. Answering this question would incriminate himself.

"Dean," Sam teased. "How irresponsible."

Dean really wanted to change the subject. "Do you think that she has visions too?"

The younger shrugged. "I know that her family never had a fire in her house."

"So she could have just been whining over bad grades and a sour home life?"

Sam snorted. "She was getting good grades, at pre-law, and she loved her family dearly. It was… something else. She didn't tell me because she didn't think I'd believe her… I think."

"You two talked a lot for a one night stand."

Sam shook his head, but couldn't argue. The sex had been enjoyable, confirming the fact that Sam had needed the stress release. One thing had led to another and Sam had taken advantage, a way to get even closer to each other after hours of spilling their guts. She had offered the physical comfort that he had craved. There had been this connection and all his childhood, Sam had tried to create (and sometimes force) connections separate from his family. The connection formed with Joan has been effortless and he hadn't wanted it to end. He forced himself to stay in the present. To concentrate on Joan and the baby. And the demon after both of them. He looked out the window and cursed.

Dean was at his side in a moment. "Ahh, hell."

"It's a mite cold for that."

Dean punched his arm and the two men stared out at the lazy, fat snowflakes drifting to the ground. "Do you think that we can get Joan to skip work?"

Sam snorted. "She's nine months pregnant and still walking a mile and half to and from that bar in the cold. I don't think the snow is going to be a factor."

"Why are you over here and not with her?"

"She kicked me out at two. I called her up and talked with her on the phone for another hour."

"More talking?" Dean grinned.

"This time, it was mostly all the places that she had been in the last eight months. We just barely missed her in Colorado last month."

"Really?"

"Ash called too."

Dean sobered immediately. "And?"

"He's pretty sure that the demon has been on the move the last two months. It hasn't caused any fires; Ash was just following the meteorological signs."

Dean glanced warily toward Joan's room. "Has it…?"

"I think so. The demon vanished off his radar two weeks ago after taking an entire family out."

"Why aren't you out there?"

"The manager started asking questions and threatened to call the cops." A smirk. "I saw him sneaking in and out of his mistress's room. So I put a line of salt on the outside of her doors and stayed near." Sam shook his head. "I guess that's just extra since you did it on the inside. I noticed the window but didn't realize that you had pulled up the carpet by the door. I talked Joan into calling me if she wakes up and is uneasy for any reason. I made her promise."

Dean huffed, grimaced and crossed his arms. "She should still be sleeping?"

"I hope so, she's going to get quite a workout very soon."

"I'll pick the lock of her room and watch over her."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"You're right. You should go watch over her and let me catch some zzz's."

"Dean!"

"Tell her that you're worried about the snow and that you want to know about contractions as soon as they start. If the roads are going to be hellish, we'll need as much time as possible."

"She's going to think I'm hovering. And there is always a chance that the baby will be late."

"Dude, our hovering now is nothing compared to what we're going to be doing for the next six months."

Sam couldn't argue with that. They would not be letting Joan out of their sight for quite a while. He had no idea how he was going to explain that one to Joan either. Or the supernatural hunting. That was going to be a fun conversation; every girl they've previously told about it has thought that they were insane until they had experienced it.

Sam grabbed his coat and his laptop. Dean was more right than wrong: he needed to be near Joan and he had to narrow down the grave that Dean needed to dig up. The three doors to Joan's room took no time at all. He couldn't talk himself into picking the lock, so he knocked on the door. Joan answered the door in her flannel nightgown before he had to knock a third time, checking through the window before she opened it a crack.

"Sam?"

"It's snowing," he blurted out. "I… I wanted to be close in case the contractions start. We'll need plenty of time to drive to the hospital."

Joan blinked slightly, but let him in without further complaint. She was in stocking feet and he hurried to shut the door behind him.

"Please, just go back to sleep. I'll be quiet."

Joan warily climbed back into bed and lay on her side, facing away from Sam. He could tell by her breathing that she wasn't sleeping twenty minutes later. She shifted yet again.

"Can I help?" he asked softly. "I've read that your lower back is probably aching. Rubbing it sometimes helps."

Joan didn't answer for a while. "Do you mind?"

Sam smiled. "I wouldn't have offered if I did."

"Please."

Sam closed down his computer and took off his boots. He sat on top of the covers, leaning against the headboard and rubbed through the many layers of fabric to ease the ache in Joan's back. It took thirty minutes for her to relax at his touch and another twenty for her to fall back to sleep. He was sure that his hand would fall off before that happened, but continued to rub until she was deep into dreamland. He sat beside her and contemplated just how weird and wrong his life was. He looked over at the face of the woman about to bear his child and realized that she had quietly cried herself to sleep.

Her life was weird, and wrong too, and about to get worse.

He could only hope she would be able to handle it.

He reached over to the table and grabbed his laptop (small motel rooms and long arms meant that nothing was truly out of reach). He opened it up again and continued searching for clues.

Two hours later, Dean quietly tapped on the window in a syncopated rhythm that Sam knew as well as his own heartbeat. Sam hurried to the door and slipped out before Joan could awake again.

"How's it going?"

"She's sleeping."

"Good. And the hunt?"

"I think you have to talk to the chatty nurse again. Get some better clues. We really don't know why some people become ghosts and others don't and we can't tell by looking back at their psych reports. Once she gives you a name or a description, I do know where each one is buried."

Dean grimaced. "I don't like being that far away."

"We can always call an ambulance if you're not close enough."

Dean's glare indicated his opinion of that.

"We need the spirit taken care of before she goes into labor and that can happen at any time."

"I know, I know. Hey, I've got an idea; she can come with me and tour the maternity wing like Richard suggested."

Sam shook his head no. "She's insisting on working tonight and she needs as much sleep between now and then as possible. Be back by four so that she'll ride and not walk there."

Dean grumbled but nodded his agreement. "Before that happens, you need to get some sleep. I'll stay with her."

Sam frowned. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea. She doesn't know you."

"She's got to get used to me sometime. You're no good to either of them if you drop from exhaustion. Get some sleep, Sammy."

Sam looked from Joan's hotel door to his brother. Dean was correct: he desperately needed sleep. Things were about to get hectic and all of them had to be acting at their highest capacity. Dean was also the last person Sam wanted anywhere near a pregnant woman. He was rude, crude, and had no respect for personal boundaries (_I love the smurfs_.) Sam could always count on Dean to protect someone, but he felt that carefully handling someone was coddling and Dean didn't believe that anyone should be coddled.

"Dean…"

"I'll be good," his brother promised with a grin. "Or you could always sleep next to Joan, right here?"

Case in point. Sam glared at his brother and muttered 'jerk' even as he let Dean into Joan's room and retrieved his jacket. Dean was manipulating him and they both knew it. Sam left the one hotel room quickly, entered another and collapsed on his bed without taking his shoes off. He opened his eyes long enough to know that the protective salt was correctly placed. As his mind started shutting down, Sam wondered where the ultrasound picture was.

Dean would have placed it somewhere safe….

***

Azazel's current meatsuit wasn't really suited to screaming with the intensity that he truly wanted, so he left it behind and took to the atmosphere as black smoke. He kicked off a disastrous flash flood in the desert, three freak lightening storms that took away power from an entire county, and made a herd of cattle drop head before he was calm enough to think rationally.

Sam Winchester had disappeared, less than a week after the demon had lost the little slut that was pregnant with his child.

They had to be found. Samuel was the frontrunner in his plans, far and away the best-trained and strongest of the marked children. For him to go missing now, when everything was heating up, did not bode well for his plans. Especially since Azazel had no idea how the brat _could_ disappear.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Joan awoke tired, but at least her back and ankles and feet weren't too sore. She flushed slightly at the memory of Sam rubbing her back, but the rewards greatly outweighed the humiliation.

"Oh good, you're up."

Joan's head turned toward the semi-familiar voice. Sometime while she had been sleeping, Sam had left and Dean had replaced him. The brother was grinning at her (like one would smile at a wild animal) as he was putting the ultrasound picture of William into his wallet. Joan had thought that she was close to her family, but that was the tip of the iceberg in comparison to the Winchester brothers.

Sam trusted Dean, Joan knew this to her very bones. That didn't mean that Joan could trust him. She really wasn't interested in getting to know him in addition to all her other problems. That would be like going straight from a rollercoaster to a tilt-a-whirl.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked worriedly. It had taken too long for her to answer. "Can I get you water, or coffee or something?"

"I gotta get rid of water," she grumbled, "and I'm off coffee until the baby makes his grand début."

"The john's empty."

Joan flushed again that he had heard her complaint. She ignored him as she tried to leverage herself out of the bed.

"You wanna hand?" Dean asked, "Or should I call for a tow truck?"

Joan's jaw dropped at his insensitivity. He might even be worse than Grace. Without thinking about it, Joan grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. Dean caught it with a grin and said, "Oh, good. You have a sense of humor. You've got one up on Sammy."

Joan struggled a little more, getting her feet under her. "Why hasn't your brother smashed a pie in your face yet?"

"Hmmmm, pie good."

Joan snickered in spite of herself.

"Seriously, Sam can take care of himself. He superglued my hand to a beer bottle during our last prank war."

"Good for him." Joan finally stood and tried to ignore Dean's sharp eyes watching her every move. With a sigh of relief, she retreated into the bathroom. A set of Braxton-Hicks came while she was washing her hands, and the young woman stayed in the tiny bathroom until it was over. She didn't know how long she had dallied but not nearly long enough for Dean to start pounding on the door.

"You fall in in there, Joanie?" he called. "I even made sure that I left the toilet seat down."

Embarrassing. Joan flushed the toilet and washed her hands, refusing to acknowledge the remark. After trying to regain her composure, she opened the door. Dean examined her head to toe.

"I can see why Sammy was attracted to you," he said, almost to himself. "He's got great taste in women."

"You really are a dog." Joan couldn't believe she had let that slip out.

The insult didn't bother Dean, at all. He grinned again and shrugged. "Yep, but I'm one of those adorable dogs that are really protective of their family."

Joan couldn't argue with that. She rolled her eyes and flicked the last water droplets from washing her hands at Dean's face. He smiled more and didn't flinch.

Dean stepped back to let Joan pass. She made a beeline for the food and rummaged in the mini-fridge for the orange juice, pouring herself a cup.

"I would have gone out to get you some food, but I didn't know what you'd like."

Joan nodded. It made sense. "You really don't know anything about me."

"Yeah. Like, are you bribable?"

Joan faced him at such an odd question. "Why?"

"I've got a pile of embarrassing Sammy stories and I'll trade them if you'll tell me the baby's name, or let me feel him moving, or if you don't go into work. Or best yet, you let me drive you to a different hospital." Dean was mostly serious, though he was wearing a used car salesman smile. "What will it take?"

Joan had taken her pre-natal vitamins during Dean's little speech. "I'm not really bribable," she finally said. "You can find out the name with everyone else and you can't talk me out of work or the hospital."

"But why not?"

"It's something that I have to do."

"But why?"

Joan tilted her head. "Are you sure that you are the older brother and not the younger?"

"Hell, yeah. Been taking care of him since he was born."

"You sound like a little brother, always asking why."

Dean agreed. "I swear that is still Sammy's favorite word."

Joan smiled back. "Same with my younger brother, Luke."

"Does he want to be a lawyer like you?"

Joan nearly snorted her juice. She glared at Dean as he was laughing at her.

"Well, tell me about your brother," Dean prompted. "You know mine… in the Biblical sense."

Joan rolled her eyes and ignored the comment. "Someday, he'll be named among the great scientists like Edison, Einstein and Newton."

Dean faked a solemn appearance. "Yes, this year's Nobel Prize winning, joining the esteemed ranks of Einstein and Newton is Joan's Little Brother, Luke. What the hell is your last name anyway?"

"Girardi."

Dean nodded once. "How good is your fake ID?"

"Don't have one. Why would I need one?"

"How are you getting by without it?"

Joan smiled. "Someone upstairs is definitely looking out for me. I haven't needed anything and I keep getting paid under the table."

"It's good to have one… or a few anyways, for emergencies. Do you have any preferences as to your other names?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. How about Pat Benatar?"

"Where did you think up that name? Do I seriously look like a 'Pat'?"

Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Well, now that you mention it…" he drawled. "I can think of a name that rhymes with Pat."

Joan started looking for something to throw at him. "You are skating on thin ice," she warned when she couldn't find anything that wouldn't be damaged by the trip.

He grinned. "You didn't answer about the other one."

She glanced at the clock before she turned her head back to him. She had slept much later than she had planned, but there were still two hours until she needed to start her walk to work. "What?"

"I'll go get whatever you want to eat for breakfast," he began, then looked at the clock and rolled his eyes, "make that lunch, if you let me feel the baby moving."

Joan made a face. "I'm actually not that hungry."

Dean stared. "You're kidding."

She shrugged, her hands coming down to rest on her belly. "There's no room in there for anything but baby now."

"Another myth shot to hell," he said, grinning. "Sure you don't want anything? 'Cause I'm _starving_."

Joan considered this for a moment. Asking for food would probably give her a little privacy while he got it. Being in a room alone with either Winchester was a little . . . _intense_. She could use some time to regroup. "Pancakes?"

"Consider it done." He was already reaching for his jacket.

"And can you bring back some jellies? Strawberry or plum or apple butter would work too."

"On it." Dean had one hand on the door when he turned to look at her. She was caught by his intense gaze. "Joanie, don't leave this room without one of us."

"But…"

"Promise me, or I'll wake up Sam and he can sit with you for the rest of the day."

"I can handle myself." She suddenly felt like a petulant three year old. "I've taken care of everything for the past nine months."

"You did a good job but everyone should have somebody to help and your somebody is me. Promise me that you won't leave, Joanie."

Joan didn't know whether she wanted to scream or cry. Dean's eyes didn't allow for either. "Fine. I promise." Dean barely shrugged at the anger in her voice; he was just happy with the promise.

"I'll be back with pancakes," he said, slipping out the door.

Joan locked the door behind him and went to get dressed while she had a little privacy.

***

Sam and Dean took up their posts in the restaurant while Joan clocked in and tied on an apron. She had made a point of introducing them to the manager as soon as possible, and Sam was surprised at the man's protective attitude. He asked them question after question, seemingly judging their intentions, before he was satisfied and retreated back to his office.

Joan began her rounds, taking orders and delivering them with a minimum of fuss, and the brothers settled into the task of watching over her. She brought over two cheeseburger platters and cokes without them asking about an hour into her shift, and was unloading them onto the table when she dropped the tray. Sam took in her expression and the white knuckles of the hand gripping the back of the empty chair. "Time to go," he said.

"No," Joan said, the word coming out harsh. "The first stage of labor can take hours."

Sam glanced at his brother, and Dean nodded and headed around toward the back. He returned with the manager. "All right, kiddo, time to go," Dean said. "This place isn't rated for a floor show."

The young woman managed a glare despite her obvious pain. "You aren't as funny as you think you are. This part could take a really long time. I don't want to spend it all at the hospital."

Her boss knelt down and picked up the tray. "Don't be silly, girl. The ride to the hospital, in this weather, could last hours too." He disappeared into the back, reappearing with her coat and a to-go box. He slid the hamburgers into the box as he talked. "Just take care of yourself and the little one. We'll see you when you come back."

"I don't think I'll be coming back," Joan said quietly. "I think I'll be moving on soon."

The man nodded. "Then be careful." He looked at Sam pointedly. "And you better watch out for them, young man."

Sam nodded and helped Joan into her coat before ushering out to the car. Dean had the engine idling as Sam guided her into the back seat. He slipped in beside her when she gripped his arm and refused to let go, the only sign Dean had seen that she was as frightened as he knew his brother was. Until now, she'd seemed mostly in control of herself, fits of tears aside, but when he looked in the rearview mirror to make sure they were situated, he caught a moment of terror before she looked down and away.

The snow turned the drive into a crawl, partly because of unplowed roads and partly due to bad drivers. Twice Dean had to guide the Impala into a controlled spin-out when someone drifted out in front of him and then slowed down. The first time it happened, Joan had been in the middle of a contraction and his passengers had been too distracted to really notice until it was over, but the second time he bumped over a curb before bouncing back down onto the road. There was a slight gasp from the woman in the back, and then Sam's voice, panicked and a little higher-pitched than normal. "Holy shit!"

"What?" Dean didn't want to take his eyes off the road when other people were such idiots.

"My water just broke," Joan said, her voice strained.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. "Are we going to make it?"

"Um, yeah?" She snorted despite the situation. "This isn't TV. We've got hours."

Dean rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he'd needed to know something like that before now. "How bad is the mess?"

"Pretty bad," Sam admitted.

Dean swore again and concentrated on driving. They made it to the hospital parking lot without further incident, and Dean parked the Impala in the emergency bay and hustled inside. He was back with a wheelchair and two nurses by the time Sam had helped Joan climb out of the back seat.

The small, oddly put-together family was escorted to the maternity wing with little fanfare. Once there, Dean grabbed Nurse Richard and swung her into an alcove.

"She's in the best of hands," Richard was quick to reassure him. "There really is no need to hurry right now, the baby won't be born for a few hours."

Dean didn't bother to mess around. "I need the name of the guy who's haunting the hospital."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," she tried to convince herself.

"We both know that's not true. Lady, you give me a name and I promise you I can make him stop killing children."

She looked at him with hope in her eyes. "You can make it stop?"

"I plan on making it stop before my nephew is the next one dead." Dean's conviction echoed in his every movement.

She finally believed him. "Thomas Scott. He should be dead, he is dead, a shootout happened in this hospital when he tried and succeeded in killing his kids right in front of us, but I swear to you, I've _seen_ him, walking around. He disappears just when I chase him around a corner. Then another child dies."

"No more will die. Thank you." He met Sam's eyes long enough to convey where he was running off to. Poor Sam was arguing with the staff (and Joan) trying to make them make Joan's pain stop _now_.

Dean ran out of the hospital and to his car. Sam had left three folders on the front bench seat, one for each of their ghost suspects. The boxed up food was sitting on top. Dean shoved it away; he'd eat later. He grabbed the folder labeled 'Thomas Scott.' The man had reportedly killed his own children at the hospital because 'they had been in pain and death would be better for therm.' He was buried at Peaceful Valley Cemetery twenty miles out of town.

Damnit.

Of course, it had to be the cemetery furthest from town. Dean floored it and was very happy for the snow tires and the sheer weight of the car that was giving him traction. He had somewhere to be to protect his family and no damned snowstorm was going to slow him down.

***

Joan paced back and forth in the birthing room. Sam walked at her side with an arm out to support her every time a contraction hit.

She'd done the research with Patricia and Charity, back when she was in Chicago, and done reading on her own after she'd left. She had made the decision to try this method over the others, and to refuse drugs. Despite all her research, Joan admitted to herself that she hadn't been truly prepared for this. She was suddenly, fiercely glad that Sam was there. There was no way she could have done this by herself.

The doctor was obviously pissed with Joan's preferences and finally snapped, "If you wanted to have a birth standing up, you should have gone to one of those hippy birthing centers."

Sam snapped back, "Next time, we will!"

Joan lost her balance at Sam's declaration and he righted her. "Can we concentrate on this one, please?"

"You could get on the bed and pretend that you know what you're doing. Oh, that's right, you don't."

"Quit it." Sam was as worried as the doctor about Joan's insistence on non-traditional birthing methods. The pacing made the hospital staff nervous, which in turn made Sam nervous. That and Joan was in pain. She was refusing the hardcore pain relievers. Why was she putting herself through this?

Joan had another contraction and Sam held her upright. He glanced at the bed. He was visibly two seconds away from sweeping her up in his arms and depositing her on the awaiting bed despite her wishes.

"Joan…"

"You're not helping either," she breathed through gritted teeth. "I'm using gravity." She had explained what she had planned while they filled out the hospital paperwork the other night, but had the feeling he hadn't really been prepared for this either.

Sam tried to loosen his grip on her arms. "What do you want me to do?"

"Help me keep going."

Sam was shaking. She could feel the tremors in his hands where they held her arms, and felt a little bit put out. He was absolutely not allowed to flip out on her right now. She felt another contraction coming and reached up to grab onto his arms, struggling to breathe through it. "You promised," she finally managed when the pain ebbed away a little. "If you aren't going to help me, you can go wait with your brother." Even as Joan said the words, she knew she didn't mean them. The idea of going through this without him terrified her now, and if Sam tried to leave she would do anything she could to prevent it.

Thankfully, Sam was already shaking his head 'no.' "I'm staying," he insisted.

Joan relaxed slightly despite the pain, and she managed a smile. "Good." She wouldn't have to do this alone. No matter what happened afterwards, Sam was here and he was staying through this. She could deal with anything that came afterwards.

***

Dean paced the halls of the hospital. He was alone in the waiting room except for the little blonde girl coloring, but she ignored him. Dean had made several circuits of the hospital; if demons would enter, it would be through here. None were coming at the moment and Dean was very grateful. It had been hours since Joan's water had broken and Dean had rushed her and Sam to the hospital amid the snowstorm. In the meantime, Dean had managed to find, salt and burn the bones of the disturbed father who had been killing kids. (It was hell digging up frozen ground in the snow alone.) He had scrubbed the amniotic fluid out of the Impala and eaten the sandwiches. He had gone shopping for the baby. He had gotten everything from blankets and bottles and formula to a rattle and a car seat. Sam had given him explicit instructions on what kind of car seat he could buy, according to crash test ratings and the fact that the Impala didn't have seat belts in the back. His brother had also done all the research on what he would need to do to the Impala to make the car seat stable. Knowing that he was proposing changing something on _Dean's_ baby, Sam had done extensive research to what would be reversible as soon as the rug rat didn't need the safety seating. All this was in the grocery cart and the cashier had teased him, telling him that he had everything but the baby and diapers. To his great chagrin, Dean had forgotten the number one dirty fact of babies, the diapers. He had run to the correct section and grabbed the biggest bag of newborn diapers the store carried. (Who knew that there were so many choices?) He used a fake credit card this time, but wasn't worried. They would leave town as soon as the doc said Joan was released.

Dean paced some more. How long did it take to have a baby anyway?

"It takes a long time," the little girl suddenly spoke.

"Huh?"

"Babies. They take a long time." She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and then offered Dean a crayon. "Would you like to color?"

"Ahh, no thanks." Dean waved her off. He needed to keep both hands free and the little girl out of the line of fire. "Maybe you should go color elsewhere."

"It's going to be okay, Dean. It's safe here now."

Dean backed away from the little girl. How did she know his name? "_Christo_," he said.

"Yes?" she answered sweetly.

That was not the expected reaction. Dean flicked his hipflask of holy water at her and the stream of water landed on her. The water _slowed_, it _changed_.

It _sparkled_ where it landed on her and didn't make her clothes wet. She giggled with delight and held out her hands to feel more of it raining down on her. "Do you want it back?" she offered. The sparkles dripped down her hair and face and collected in the palm of her left hand in ways that defied gravity. "It'll be of more use to you now."

"Oh, hell," Dean whispered.

"Not quite yet," a new dark voice whispered in Dean's ear. Dean whirled around, pulling out his gun with rock salt. There stood before him was a beautiful woman and three of her beautiful sisters. Their eyes glittered demon-black. "It's time for your family to die."

"No," said the little girl.

"Who do you think you are?" the red-head challenged her.

"I am."

The far-right of the demon possessed fell down in pain and started scooting back, crab-like. The other three were stepping back…

In fear?

"You are not allowed here," the little girl declared. "Be gone."

Dean watched as the demons fled those they had possessed. The black evil dispersed. The four beautiful women dropped to the floor without the demons to hold them up. Two immediately turned old, one turned ugly. The last one didn't change, but she snarled at Dean and his pint-sized protector, "We wanted them. We invited them in. Look what you've done!" All four women stumbled out of the hospital and away. The little girl was watching the whole proceeding sadly. She sighed with regret and picked up another crayon.

"Are you sure you don't want to color with me?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't believe in you."

"Of course you do. You just hate me for not saving your mother… and your father." The child was so matter-of-fact.

"Ya, so where were you then?"

Dean had heard of old eyes, of sad eyes. He had even thought that he had seen them several times in his life, but none of those compared to the ageless, mourning eyes now before him. "I was there."

"Why didn't you stop it?"

"There's a reason for the way everything happens, Dean. You aren't ready yet to know them. But something you do need to know is that you wouldn't like who you would have become without it. And Sam still would have been a target, without knowing why or how to fight it."

Or without him to protect his little brother. Dean winced. He looked at the girl and she looked at him. He broke the gaze first. Finally, his practical nature made him blurt out, "I'll take that water back if you're still offering."

She held out her (small child's) hand. Dean's hands shook as he held out the bottle for her to return the liquid to. When he had most of it, she put her hands on Dean's. And a cell phone in his hand. "Joan is very special to me. As is your family. Protect them." She smiled slyly. "You know, it was very nearly you in that delivery room waiting for your baby. You certainly gave me plenty of opportunities to make it happen. You need to consider that."

Dean nodded drunkenly. He stood and stared as he watched the little girl walk away. No one else even noticed that she was there.

And then she turned a corner and he couldn't see her.

Dean couldn't breathe. He didn't believe this. He couldn't believe this.

What on earth was he going to tell Sam?

Strong arms lifted Dean off his feet. He struggled and kicked out. He and his attacker lost their balance and crashed to the floor.

"Whoa," Sam was laughing. "It's just me."

Dean calmed a bit, still shaken by what had happened.

"Everything okay?" they asked each other.

Dean raised his (shaking) hands in confusion and finally nodded. "Joanie? And the baby?"

"William John," Sam declared proudly as he helped Dean to his feet. "Born at about seven o'clock, seven pounds, one ounce and twenty-one inches long. He's skinny and he has a good set of lungs. Joan's doing really good." Now Sam looked chagrined. "She did better about the pain and the new baby than I did."

"Did you pass out?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam frowned. "Why would I have done that?"

"Dad did. At your birth. I remember Mom teasing him, I think." Hadn't he been too little to have remembered that? Why was he so sure it had happened now?

Sam laughed and then looked around at the pristine waiting room. "What happened that has you so jumpy? Did a demon come?"

"_Dude_, you knocked up _a servant of God_. You are so going to Hell for this."

"Dean…"

"Seriously, you did. God was waiting in this room with me. And He kicked out _four_ demons with just a word. Like that," Dean snapped his fingers. "You should have seen what He, She, I'm not sure, did with Holy Water. It sparkled. She said that Joan was special and to protect her." He was babbling, and he wasn't even sure he believed what he was saying entirely, but he couldn't stop.

Sam didn't look like he really believed his brother, but Dean was so obviously shaken that _something_ must have happened.

"You are so going to Hell," Dean repeated.

And it didn't matter so much as Joan and William were alive and without pain right now. "Okay… anyway, they're cleaning up Joan and William right now. I've gotta go and make sure the room's safe, that you burned the right bones, then I'll be back as soon as they say I can bring back family."

Dean slapped Sam's back. "Congrats, Daddy."

Sam escaped before Dean's weird mood could affect him. Dean sat down where the little girl had been sitting and coloring. He realized that she had drawn a picture of a baby boy and written, 'Someone should tell Joan's family,' on the paper with her childish scrawl. Dean looked at Joan's cell phone the girl had given him and checked the contacts. 'Home' was speed dial two.

Dean hit send and passed along the information he knew to the answering machine.

***

Helen set a sack of groceries on the counter and her purse on a chair before she took off her coat. "Will?" There was no answer, but his car was in the driveway so he had to be home. The light was blinking on the answering machine as she walked past to start a pot of coffee, so she hit the button.

An unfamiliar, but distinct male voice came through the speaker. "William John. Born about seven this morning, seven pounds one ounce, twenty-one inches long. He and Joan are doing fine." The connection clicked off and the message ended. Helen hurried to play it again, listening with tears in her eyes as the scanty information played out into the otherwise silent room.

After listening to the message twice more and writing down every word from the unknown man, she saved it and headed upstairs. Her husband was sitting on Joan's bed, exactly where she knew he would be. There was an empty glass sitting on the nightstand, and Helen was secretly glad it wasn't an empty bottle. She sat down next to Will and slipped one hand between his two.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Helen knew that there was nothing she could really say to make this any easier. Will had regretted the words he'd spoken within an hour, but that had been an hour too late. Joan had disappeared so quickly and effectively that not even the combined efforts of Will, Kevin and Luke Girardi could find her. This was the most direct contact they'd had with their daughter since the day she left. Other than a few secondhand e-mails from a child in Missouri and a short appearance in an emergency room in Colorado, Joan could have been transported to another galaxy for all they knew.

"She named it after me," he finally said. "Why would she do that?"

Helen took a long time in answering. "You're still her father, Will. And Joan loves you. That's enough."

***

Joan woke up in a couple of hours, suffered through the trip to the bathroom and then waited. The nursing staff had promised that she and William would be released within twenty-four hours if they didn't find any problems, and she was ready to be out of here. Sam was asleep right beside the window. Dean had closed the door to her private birthing room and was sleeping in a chair there. That door couldn't be opened without it hitting him. He and the nursing staff had had a fight every hour as they checked on Joan and her son.

Sam had hissed them into silence the first two times. By the third time, Joan took over and just told the nurses to knock louder than they had been and then _wait_ five seconds for Dean to move. She told Dean to move when they knocked. Both parties had been shamed into submission. She had caught Sam hiding a smile at how fast Dean tried to accommodate her. Considering how happy the brothers had been that she and William would spend their hospital visit in the same room the whole time, they were sure causing problems. Dean very nearly got himself kicked out of the maternity wing. Only two things prevented that from happening: Dean's champion in Nurse Richard and Sam almost begging Joan to take their side in the argument.

Joan sighed and snuggled her sleeping son closer to her side. In spite of it all, Joan was very pleased with her choices; William was precious. It was amazing that this was the little person that had been in her belly for nine months.

But she still needed to distract herself from her own thoughts. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV as quietly as possible.

"Congratulations Joan," the familiar news anchor greeted. "You did a wonderful job."

She should have expected this, but she was still flying high from the euphoria of William being born. "Thank you for him," she said sincerely. "He's perfect."

"No. He's not perfect, but he is very special." God corrected her. "You are going to have a lot of changes now."

"Caring for William," she assumed.

"That as well. Joan, you have to stay with Sam and Dean. They'll protect you as well as they can."

"Will it be enough?"

"That depends on free will. You did notice the salt lines and their guns. They have a pretty good understanding of what's out there."

Joan winced. "So mostly follow their directions?"

"Yes, except in twelve days, follow them when they leave the hotel. Take a loaded shotgun and a bag of salt. You'll figure out the rest. You can tell them everything then."

"What!?"

Joan's shriek woke all three of the males in her room. Anchor God droned on about some circus bear that had escaped and killed a person in the area. Sam was the first to react. He stood and (with his height easily) reached the mounted TV and turned it off.

"You shouldn't let anything upset you," he chided carefully.

Dean sidled up to Joan's bed and peeked at his mewling nephew. "He cries like a kitten," he complained.

"For that," Joan said, "you get to settle him at three in the morning when he's screaming."

Dean considered it. Obviously it wasn't much of a threat to him. "It can't be worse than his father with colic."

It was sometimes hard to comprehend that Dean had the most parenting experience of all three of them. And sometimes not. Right now he was shifting back and forth, his hands twitching. He glanced at Joan's face and then back at the baby.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Dean was already reaching for William. "God, yes," he breathed. He tucked the baby close and reverently touched the tiny hands. "You and me are going to be best buds and I am always going to be around to protect you," Dean promised.

Joan couldn't stop the tears that were welling in her eyes at the obvious tenderness and heartfelt honesty. Dean happened to glance at her and he looked absolutely horrified at her tears. "Are you hurting?" he immediately assumed. He was already heading toward the door. "I'll get a nurse."

"Dean," Joan offered a watery chuckle. "It's not pain."

"Is it a girl thing?"

Joan shrugged.

"It could be a pregnancy thing," Sam offered. "She does have a lot of extra hormones floating through her body."

"It's a Joan thing," the woman in question said. "I cry, more than some, less than others."

"Well, stop it," Dean ordered.

"Dean!" Sam was scandalized. "You can't tell a girl… a woman who just gave birth to stop crying."

"If you're hurt, you're allowed to cry," Dean was being more serious than not. "Otherwise, it's a waste of water and salt. Two very important items for survival."

Joan laughed through her tears. "Ordering that is not going to make an ounce of difference. I'm a girl, we cry. Even Grace cries… occasionally."

"That's just wrong."

"'Cause it makes you feel all helpless?" Teasing Dean was almost as fun as teasing Luke or Kevin.

Dean shifted a bit a being pegged. He glared as much as he dared to glare at a woman in a hospital bed.

"Dean, if it makes you feel any better, I promise that I will never cry to get my way."

Sam heaved a sigh of relief.

Joan tapped Sam's arm. "Take a picture," she ordered. "You have to take a picture."

Sam couldn't argue. He dug out his phone and snapped a shot. Dean who normally avoided cameras posed and held the baby up so that his face could be seen. Then he handed over his own phone and kept the pose. Sam smirked but obediently snapped another picture with Dean's phone.

It took a few minutes for things to calm down and Dean to return the baby, but eventually both Sam and Dean settled back into sleep in their chairs. Joan resumed her appraisal of her newborn son. He had dropped back to sleep not long after Dean had given him back. The hospital had bundled him up in several loose layers, and she carefully unwrapped him to get a better look.

"Can I see?"

Joan looked up, a little startled, to see that Sam had slipped out of his chair and was leaning over the bed. She nodded, and he pulled up his seat and hung over the bed rail. The light that filtered through and around the blinds was good enough that she could see both of them clearly, but the baby was the much safer object of perusal. She worked the fingers of one fist free with gentle motions, smiling when he reflexively grabbed onto one of her own. "He's got such long fingers," she whispered.

"They match his toes," Sam replied, just as quietly, as he worked on replacing the sock he had just removed. He had such a look of concentration on his face that Joan nearly laughed. The tiny garment looked even smaller in Sam's hands. "He's so small," he breathed, and Joan knew that whatever reservations Sam had about her, they were in no way transferred to her son.

"Way too little for such a big name," she agreed. She'd been calling him William all along, but that didn't really seem to fit him now that he was here.

"Will?" Joan winced and shook her head, and Sam didn't push. "Bill?"

"Too grown-up. Maybe he can go by that when he's older."

And so William John had gotten dubbed 'Billy' before he even was strapped into the car seat for the first time. The nursing staff had put up a fuss; they wouldn't let the baby leave without seeing the car seat that was going to be his home for the next six to eight months. Dean teased them saying that Billy had the Winchester charm already and the girls just didn't want to see him leave. Nurse Richard said that the entire family was welcome to stay at her place for a while.

Dean nodded once in acknowledgement of the sincere offer but insisted that they needed to get on the road.

Joan's first day out of the hospital went by in a blur. She and Billy both slept in the back seat of the Winchester car, except for the times she spent feeding and changing the newborn. She had vague impressions of rest stop bathrooms and a couple of half-eaten fast food meals, but the only things that she truly remembered were the rumble of the car engine, two deep masculine voices speaking quietly in the front seat, and the dissonant sound of guitars turned down low.

The next few days were a little clearer. They were still spent in the car, but she managed to follow and occasionally add to the conversations taking place in the front seat. For some reason, they seemed reluctant to stop at a motel for the night. Joan wasn't sure if this was a money thing, or if they knew the same thing that God had told her back in Missouri and were evading possible attention from unspecified evil. When she asked (okay, whined, but she had good reason) for the chance to clean up, they pulled into a truck stop and waited outside the door while she plunked in a handful of change for a depressingly short shower.

It was unbelievably awkward at times, spending all this time within arms reach of Sam. She trusted in what God had told her; they would protect Billy against anything that threatened him. But it would be nice to have a little more privacy. The only reason that she hadn't argued yet was a practical one: she was much too tired to fight over anything that wasn't life and death.

***

Dean had been looking for a place to stop for lunch when the cell phone rang the first time. It wasn't his phone. He hit Sam. "Hey! Wake up! Get your damn phone."

"It's not mine," he mumbled.

"Then whose is it? Billy's?"

Sam woke up at that. "Joan has one." He looked over the bench seat trying to pinpoint the noise source; both Joan and the baby were sound asleep. Billy, in true Winchester fashion, had been wide awake as soon as the sun went down. He also hadn't wanted anyone but his mother. Dean had ended up finding a dirt road and parking on the side. They had put down a large circle of salt and let a bundled-up Joan pace within.

Joan had snickered and waited at the sight of the salt. When no explanation had been forthcoming other than 'humor us, we'll explain it later' she had made a face and concentrated on getting Billy back to sleep. It had taken four hours before Billy had exhausted himself. His beleaguered mother was trying to catch up on her sleep now.

Or had been until some idjit had called her.

Joan sighed, woke up and then reached into her coat pocket. She glanced at the number and smiled slightly. "Hello," she answered. "Oh, hi, Michael. How are you doing?"

"_I'm not the one a week past her due date."_

Joan laughed. "Billy –William John- made his safe appearance last Saturday."

"_That doesn't tell me how you are doing."_

"I'm fine. A little sleep deprived, but good."

"_That's normal. It's especially hard to do on your own."_

Joan wasn't sure how to respond with both Dean and Sam avidly eavesdropping. Michael seemed to know what her pause meant. His voice took on a knowing lilt. _"Unless you're not doing it on your own."_

"Michael," she warned.

"_You're not alone, are you?"_

"No."

"_The father,"_ he asked hopefully.

Joan peeked at Sam who was staring at her with mysterious emotions in his eyes. "How did you know?"

"_I prayed for it,"_ he said honestly.

Joan covered her own eyes. She could hear Father Forthill in her head; the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. She was scared to ask what else the fierce, determined, humble warrior had prayed for.

Michael confessed some more. _"So have Charity and the children."_

Joan groaned. "Michael."

"_It's really hard to raise a child alone. Especially the first one."_ A sad huff. _"Charity would know. I want more for you, especially with your other burdens, Joan. You didn't have any resentment toward him, so I hoped that he was honorable."_

"Charity didn't mind, not at all." Joan concentrated on the easier answer.

"_I know. I was going to invite you back, but I'm guessing that's not in the immediate future."_

"No, it's not."

"_Is he honorable?" _Michael asked directly.

It was easier to address straight on. "Yes. Most definitely."

"_Good. Charity wants to talk to you."_ Only a moment passed before the brisk, motherly woman came on the line.

"_Joan? How are you?"_

"I'm good."

"_Sore?"_

"A little."

"_How long was labor?"_

"Fourteen hours."

"_Any stitches?"_

"No."

"_Did you have any problem with the hospital following your preferences?"_

"No, I gained a couple of advocates." Joan hadn't had a chance to thank Sam and Dean for supporting her.

"_Wonderful. So how big is William?"_

"We're calling him Billy. He was born at about seven AM last Saturday, seven pounds, one ounce and twenty-one inches long. He's healthy and is eating fine."

Joan could hear a pen scratching the stats onto a piece of paper. _"Patricia has been asking, as has Father Forthill. You sound tired. Do you want to talk to the kids, or next time?"_

Joan was tired. "Molly?" she asked anyways.

"_Out with Dresden."_

"What about their injuries?"

"_All healed. The casts came off several weeks ago. They've already had two brushes with trouble."_

"That's good. Well, it's good that they're back doing their thing. Give them all my love."

"_Of course. You know that you are always welcome at our house."_

"I know, and thank you."

Charity brushed off the thanks. "_Michael wants to talk to Billy's father. Keep in touch."_

The phone passed hands again. _"Joan, put him on the phone."_

"I don't think that's a spectacular idea." She glanced at Sam again. He was still watching and listening. He'd get a crick in his back if he stayed twisted around like that much longer.

"_Someone needs to look out for you. Put him on the phone."_

"Michael."

"_Put him on, Joan."_

Joan didn't even consider hanging up instead. She put a hand over the speaker of the phone and sighed. "Michael wants to talk to you. You don't have to…"

Sam snatched the phone out of her hands before she could offer any excuses. "This is Samuel Winchester speaking," he said. Better to start out on the offensive.

"_Are you William's father, Samuel?"_ The voice was mature, caring and patient. It was a father's voice.

Sam felt slightly chastised for his abrupt greeting. "Yes, sir."

"_Are you taking care of Joan and William?"_

"I'm trying, sir."

"_Do more than try. Be gentle with them. Are you protecting them?"_

"We're doing the best we can."

"_We?"_

"My brother, Dean, and I."

"_Good. Give the phone back to Joan."_

Sam was only too happy to oblige. Joan accepted the phone with wide, worried eyes. "Michael?"

"_Don't worry. And keep in touch so that Charity doesn't worry either."_

"I will, I promise."

"_God bless and goodbye."_

Joan echoed the goodbye and ended the call with a sigh of relief. Sam was still staring at her, but he had relaxed slightly.

"He's a father, isn't he?"

Joan laughed hard. "Oh yeah. He and Charity have seven kids. His oldest, Molly, is a really good friend of mine."

Dean relaxed finally, which surprised Joan. Why would he be nervous? "Lunchtime," he announced. "Joanie, why don't you pick the place?" That was generous. What had she done to earn that?

"My name is Joan," she argued for the hundredth time. Sam grinned at her in sympathy. She had noticed that Dean often called him 'Sammy' much to the younger brother's embarrassment.

"Lunch?" Dean ignored her complaints.

Joan rolled her eyes. "Someplace where I can get something vaguely healthy." This ruled out about 80% of the places that Dean preferred, but she had baby weight to lose and that wasn't going to happen on a diet of cheeseburgers and pizza. She'd prefer a chance to start cooking her own meals, but until they stopped this particular maneuver of switching drivers and sleeping in shifts in the car she'd have to make do with a restaurant salad.

***

Azazel growled in frustration. There had been a tantalizing reappearance of both Samuel and his brat, long enough for him to send some of his children in that direction. The demons had gotten as far as a hospital before he felt them screaming as they were sent to the Pit. And just after that had happened, the child vanished from his radar, along with Sam. Since then, he'd had sporadic reappearances of both of them, but never long enough to do much more than note the location before they disappeared behind the veil again.

It was enough to make him want to disembowel someone. Some blood and guts to play with would be relaxing, help him to focus.

A little bit of zen mutilation was just the ticket.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Impala's engine stopped, as did the music that wasn't as loud as Dean preferred. Joan was sure the volume was out of deference of her and her newborn baby, new residents of the Winchester car. Since they had left the hospital, they had traveled through four states and numerous cities. Joan wasn't even sure what state they were in this time.

"What time is it?" she mumbled.

"Five," Dean said quietly. "You need the restroom or breakfast?"

Joan yawned and leaned over the front seat. "Yeah. Give me money."

"Why?"

"Your idea of breakfast doesn't match mine. Billy and I can't exist on M&M's."

"They're peanut M&M's," Dean argued. "What kind of donuts would you prefer?"

Joan gave him a look. "Give me money."

Sam shifted and waved his entire money clip at Joan. Dean and Joan hadn't even known that he was awake. Joan flushed slightly. Though she demanded money from Dean, she didn't know what to do with Sam's.

"Find me something too," Sam murmured.

That she could do. Joan peeled off the top twenty-dollar bill and dropped the clip into Sam's shirt pocket. She slid out of the backseat and walked quickly into the convenience store. It was cold outside as compared to the warmth three adult bodies produced in the car.

Dean was grinning again. "Dude? Handing her all of your money? She's a girl."

"I trust her."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Don't read into it."

Whatever. "Keep an eye on the baby."

"Billy's sleeping." But the tall, young man opened his eyes and straightened in his seat. Dean topped off the gas tank and wandered into the store to pay. The clerk wasn't behind the counter. Dean glanced around until he found him.

And promptly lost his temper.

The man was almost six foot tall and three hundred pounds and had Joan trapped in a corner.

"No, really," Joan insisted. "I don't need any help." She was juggling a flat of bottled water, a bottle of orange juice, two bottles of milk and several muffins. She somehow managed to dodge the man's meaty hands as well.

Dean grabbed one of the man's arms and spun him around and into the glass door behind him. The door might have cracked, but he didn't care. "She said that she wasn't interested," he snarled.

Joan took advantage of his distraction to edge around the man and to the cash register. "Dean, I'm ready to check out, have you picked your junk food?"

"He harassed you, you don't have to pay."

Joan shook her head. "Choose your junk and let's go."

"Saint Joan," Dean teased; even as he made sure his body was between her and the now-repentant clerk.

"Did you know that Joan of Arc died when she was nineteen?" Joan asked idly. "I've already outlived her."

Burned at the stake. Burned to death. Joan was not going to die that way. (And Joan of Arc was never, _ever_ going to be mentioned again.) Dean paid for everything and ushered her out to the safety of the Impala. "I can't take my eyes off you for a minute before you get into trouble, can I?"

"I'm going nuts in that car. My legs are getting cramped. When are we going to stop and get a room? We seem to be going round in circles."

They had done a bit of back tracking, hoping to lose any demons on their trail. Dean was going stir-crazy as well. It was time for a new job, something simple. If it was safe enough, they could bring Joan along so that she could see what really existed in the world. As much as Dean and Sam didn't want to strip her of her innocence, she needed to know just how dangerous the world was. It was for her own safety as much as for Billy's. If they didn't, Joan was headstrong enough to go off on her own and get both of them killed.

"We can stop tonight," he finally offered. He had grabbed some newspapers. Sam could go through them for a possible job, a local one.

"Oh, thank you."

For a girl, she didn't make a lot of demands. She hadn't even mentioned getting dropped off at a bus station. She hadn't been surprised when Sam and Dean had packed up her room and checked her out without telling her. Dean knew that she noticed, but she didn't bring it up. Why not? Most girls couldn't stop asking questions. Joan had just double-checked her bag to make sure that the boys had grabbed all of her stuff.

***

Joan would have to be blind to miss all the guns in the trunk of the Impala. She pretended not to see it, like she pretended not to see the weapons scattered around the motel room, under pillows and in drawers. It was interesting watching Dean and Sam scan through the newspaper and the internet stories. She wasn't sure what they were looking for, but they hadn't found it yet.

The shared motel room hadn't surprised her as much as it should have. Sam had taken the floor without any prompting, helping her settle Billy into his temporary home.

They always asked her if she was hungry or if they could get her something. They always changed the conversation if they knew she was awake and whispered when she was 'sleeping.'

They were walking on eggshells and it was driving her crazy.

The good news was that she had completely focused on her child for eleven whole days. On day twelve, Joan was more chipper than anyone with her job had any right to be. Joan was looking forward to leaving the secrets and lies behind. It would be wonderful if someone believed her. She was pretty sure that they would.

"Front page or comics?" Dean asked her.

Joan shrugged. Neither mattered. "Whichever."

Dean handed her the whole stack and then watched as she very carefully avoided the obituaries. "What's wrong with the obits?"

"Ever since I had the dream about Rocky and then next morning…" She looked up to see both boys watching and listening to her intently. "A boy I used to babysit died. I found out in the paper. I don't like them."

Sam nodded like he accepted it, but his brain was working overtime.

Then came the kinda weird part. Dean and Sam sat her down with very serious expressions. They explained that they had business in town that she couldn't accompany them with. They went on and on about how she was _not_ to leave the room for any reason whatsoever. How she was to call them if she got nervous in the least. They gave her warning after warning without giving her a reason why. Joan sat there, wide-eyed and listening, just waiting for them to mention the supernatural, but it never happened. Dean even handed her the keys to the Impala for 'if she felt the need to run.' They had a lot of faith in her instincts.

Joan watched from the window as they loaded up with weapons (very carefully hidden from her in a big bag) and then followed the dirt path behind the motel. As soon as they were out of sight, she put Billy in the snuggly that Charity had given her, went out to the Impala to get a bag of salt and a loaded shotgun and followed the same path.

It was a good thing that it was clear, moonlit night. She was still rather unbalanced from losing all the weight around her middle and then having it artificially there again with the snuggly. Billy was the smart one, sleeping like he should have been. It was less than a mile, when Joan finally saw the house. It was dilapidated, like most of the houses she had seen in her dreams about the Winchester boys. She could see a pair of flashlights flickering in the upstairs windows. She walked up to the front door and opened it. It didn't squeak, or squeal or make any ominous sound like in the movies.

Taking into account everything she had learned from Molly about thresholds, Joan did not cross over. Instead, she made a large circle with the salt, one that touched both edges of the doorway. She sat down in the middle of the circle and placed Billy in her lap. She readied the gun and waited.

Billy awoke and made the fun little baby noises that already entranced all the adults in his sphere. This time, they attracted someone younger. The boy was dirty and about eight years old. He was almost see-through and blurred sometimes when he moved. Joan had dealt with enough ghosts to recognize one when she saw one.

"Hi, there," she whispered.

He looked so very frightened.

"It's okay," Joan tried to reassure him. "This is my son, Billy."

The ghost edged closer to the ring of salt.

"I take care of him."

The boy offered a pained smile.

"What's your name?"

"Zack." The name was a whisper on the wind.

"Hi Zack. My name is Joan. I'm here to help you."

The kid was stunned and it showed on his poor bruised face.

"Do you like to play outside?"

The boy looked scared. "My dad doesn't like me to."

"I wasn't asking about your dad. I was asking you."

"I… like grass," he finally said.

"What do you like about grass?"

"The way it smells."

"What does it smell like?"

The boy again looked behind him to make sure no one was coming. "Freedom," he whispered.

It broke Joan's heart. "Does anyone come and invite you outside to play in the grass?"

Zack nodded. "A girl. But my dad doesn't like her. He doesn't let me near her."

"Is she near you now?"

Zack looked around and then smiled shyly to a blank corner. "Yeah."

A big man materialized behind Zack and reached for the child ghost with harsh hands. Joan knew evil when she saw it and figured that this was why God had told her to bring a gun. Joan aimed and shot at the target. The kick from the gun had her seeing stars and the noise made Billy start crying. It took a moment for her to reorient herself with her surroundings. Zack was still there and looking completely awed.

"I was sent here to help you," Joan told him again. "I really mean it."

Sam and Dean clattered down the stairs, guns at the ready.

"Joanie!" Dean swore.

Zack started to fade out.

"Stop!" Joan demanded. All the males obeyed her. Even Billy stopped crying for a moment. "Zack, it's all right. They're here to help you too."

Zack was not convinced. He edged as close to the salt line as he could possibly go. Joan edged closer to him too.

"Joanie, don't you dare touch that salt line," Dean threatened. "Don't get any closer."

She ignored him. "We're here to help you go out and play in the grass. Your dad was a bad man. Do you understand?"

Zack shook his head.

"Look, is the little girl still there?"

Zack nodded.

"Does she have blonde hair and glasses?"

Zack nodded again, surprised that Joan knew what the girl looked like. Dean might have sucked in his breath, but she was concentrating on the child.

"I know her. She loves to play with little boys like you. Does she have pink alien antenna on?"

Zack nodded for a third time.

"I bet she'd be willing to share them with you."

"They're pink," Zack declared. Dean stifled a laugh at that. Zack warily glanced back at Dean and Sam.

"Dude," Dean said. "Go out and play in the mud. With or without the girl."

Zack looked at Joan. She smiled at him. "The girl will play in the mud too."

Zack saw something that none of the living saw. He reached out and grabbed something. Someone was holding him by the hand. He walked to Joan and then looked back at Sam and Dean. "Will you carry me out?"

"Where are you, Zack?" Joan asked.

He pointed to the middle of the floor. "Down there."

"We'll get you out," Joan promised.

Zack's smile lit up Joan's heart. The boy ran to the threshold and then vanished in a flash of light right before her eyes. Joan sat back with a sigh of relief. Billy decided that he had obeyed long enough and started wailing. She was completely occupied with calming the baby down. It took awhile. When he had finally subsided, she looked up.

Dean and Sam were crouched outside the salt circle with serious expressions.

"Didn't we tell you to stay in the motel?" Dean accused.

"Dean!" Sam was flabbergasted.

"The killer ghost wasn't going to go anywhere until you freed Zack," Joan shot back.

"So we weren't doing our job, is that what you are saying?"

"You said it, not me."

"Hey!" Sam put a hand on both of the combatants' shoulders. Billy had started wailing again.

Joan tried to calm him down again. "Really doesn't like it when we argue," she muttered. "You had better not be taking his side," she told the child.

"So," Sam sifted his fingers through the salt. It calmed him down and centered him like few other things. "You know something of the supernatural."

Joan smiled. "God is supernatural."

Dean winced. "Why are you here?"

"I was told to come."

"By a premonition?" Sam guessed. "By a dream, like how you knew that your young friend was dead before you read it."

"No, my instructions were a little more precise."

"They're directly from God," Dean said slowly.

Joan blinked and then smiled. "Did God talk to you in a dream? He's done that for my mom."

"No. There was this crazy-ass little girl in the waiting room while you were in labor. I'm not saying that it was God but…"

"You told me it was God," Sam interrupted.

"Well, she-he-it had powers over demons."

Joan smiled so brightly. Sam and Dean could see the burden being lifted off her shoulders. "So you believe me?"

"I believe that we have a little boy to get out of this house," Dean said. "That's what I believe. He's been here for too long already."

"I'll go get the shovels from the bag." Sam looked at Joan. He stepped into her salt circle and lifted Joan's head with gentle fingers. "You are going to have a beautiful bruise on your chin."

Dean reached over and snatched the gun away from her. "No touching my guns, especially since you don't know how to use them." He handed the gun to Sam. "Your girl made a promise on our behalf. Get the damn shovels."

Sam left to exchange Joan's gun for the shovels they had left at the tree line. Joan stretched, picked up Billy and stood.

Dean pointed at her. "Don't even think about stepping outside of that circle, Joanie."

"But the ghosts are gone."

"Not until we're sure they are gone. You stay here."

"How long?" Joan asked with a sigh. She sat back down and tried to get comfortable on the old wooden porch.

"Until we say," Dean snapped.

"How long?" Joan asked. "Until you dig up Zack? Until you rebury him?"

"Until dawn."

"Now you're pushing it Mister."

"Do you know what we're dealing with here? Do you know how many boys have disappeared in this house?"

"No, you haven't told me. You've only talked about this place when I couldn't hear you."

Dean stepped up to her and made sure she was paying very close attention. "Three boys while he was alive, five more since he fell down the stairs and broke his own neck. Not sure who cremated him, but that saved us some work. The youngest one he killed was just two years old. This… son of a bitch preyed on boys and then he killed them. You and Billy are staying in that damned circle until I say so."

"He started with his own son, Dean," Joan said sadly. "That's why we're here to stop him once and for all."

"Sam and I are taking care of the kid…"

"His name is Zack," Joan interrupted.

"You stay put."

"Dean…"

"I want your word, Joanie. I want you to promise me to stay put."

Joan considered it. She really didn't want to promise, nor 'stay put.' "One hour," she bargained.

"Oh, hell no," Dean snorted. "That's barely enough time to find the kid, let alone rebury him in this cold. The ground is frozen you know. Five hours."

"That's dawn," countered Joan. "And I don't want to freeze sitting here. Ninety minutes."

"You followed us, you pay the consequences. Four hours."

"I was given a job by God. You don't outrank him. You have your job and I have mine. Two hours."

"Deal," Sam said on Dean's behalf. He also dropped his coat around Joan.

"You're going to need this," she protested.

"I'm going to be digging and working up a sweat. You and Billy need it more."

Joan ducked her head to hide a smile. "Thank you, Sam," she murmured. Then she looked Dean right in the eye. "I promise to remain within this salt circle for the next two hours."

Dean sighed in relief. Then he grabbed one of the shovels and tapped the wooden floorboards looking for a weak spot. He trusted her enough to turn his back on her. Joan didn't mind. She watched as the two men used their experience to demolish the floor and jump into the dirt-bottomed crawlspace.

"What kind of dreams do you have?" Sam asked in the midst of digging.

She didn't answer right away and Dean glanced at her to see why. Joan's whole face was red. She ducked her head and looked away. He grinned. He could only think of one reason why she'd be that embarrassed. "Why Joanie," he teased, "do you dream of Sammy here? Was he naked? Or nekkid?"

Now Sam was blushing too.

Then Joan grimaced. "I've seen you two digging up and burning more graves than I can count. There was that one death omen that was hidden behind a brick wall that you found with the female cop."

Now both boys were staring at her in shock. Dean noticed that it was a very effective diversionary tactic.

"You've seen _us_?" Sam confirmed.

Joan nodded.

"How much?"

Joan's bottom lip quivered and she glanced away. "I saw your dad… the accident… the… Ouija Board and the funeral pyre. I know what John did." She looked down at her own son and a couple of tears dripped down. She sniffled and tried to regain composure. "You guys don't make for very restful dreams."

"I bet," Dean muttered. "Closer to nightmares."

Sam had a horrible thought but couldn't _not_ ask. "Joan. Is William John named after Dad?"

"Yes."

What could they say to that? That was the message that their eyes exchanged. They should have known better than to assume that it was a coincidence when Joan was involved. The woman in question checked the clock on her phone. "Only ninety more minutes. Have you found Zack yet?"

Sam and Dean resumed shoveling. Dean was the first one to stop. "I think I found something." The two got down on their knees and used their gloved hands to wipe away the dirt.

"Son of a bitch," Dean cursed. "This was one sick fuck."

Joan winced at the language but was curious. "What?"

Sam met Joan's eyes and they were filled with sadness. "He wrapped Zack in a child's sleeping bag and buried him with some of his favorite… toys."

"Oh." Joan couldn't help the tears that fell.

"I think we should burn this house down," Dean muttered.

"Firefighters," Sam argued. "And Joan and Billy need a couple more days in the motel before we move again."

Dean grunted and glared into the hole that Joan could not see. "You bury the boy. I'm salting and burning the toys on the other side of the house."

"Just help me get Zack out."

Dean nodded and the two men worked together with obvious experience. Joan cried harder when she saw the tenderness they used on the long dead corpse. She cried when she read the 'G.I. Joe' logo on the sleeping bag. Kevin had had a bag like that when he was little. The two carefully stepped around her and Billy and out to the yard. They picked a place on the far side of the field, near the woods to start digging.

Joan watched and shivered.

Once Sam had a good start on the grave, Dean left him, returned to the weapons' bag for a garbage bag, salt and gas and tromped back into the house. He jumped back into the hole, tossed some things into the garbage bag and stomped out the back door, grumbling the whole time about burning the 'damn house down around the ghost's ears.' Dean finished before Sam, but he went and washed his hands and face in Holy Water (it was the only water they had in the bag). Then he came to Joan and reached a hand down to her.

She gladly accepted the help to her feet. She and Dean quietly walked to the far edge where Sam had finished digging. Dean helped his brother gently lay the body into the grave and then the two hopped out.

"Do you want to say anything, Joanie?"

She smiled. "Play in peace, Zack. Enjoy the grass and the mud."

"Damn straight," Dean agreed.

Sam rolled his eyes at how his brother effectively broke the solemn moment. Then the Winchester men started filling in the unmarked grave. Joan felt a little guilty about it, but knew that Zack wasn't in the ground. He was in a better place. She yawned; she was so tired. It had been an exhausting night.

The adults were silent as they walked back to the motel room. Even Billy seemed to respect the moment. Sam was given first dibs on the shower.

"Joanie?" Dean said quietly.

The woman in question was already half-asleep. It was the wee hours of the morning and she had barely managed to stumble back to the motel under her own power, exhausted. They had offered to carry her and Billy but she was stubborn. Sam had been the one to remove her boots and cover her and the baby with a blanket. "Hmmm?"

"Thanks for naming Billy after Dad."

A smile, a murmur, genuine confusion. "How could I not?"

It was then that Dean decided that Joan was perfect for his baby brother and the Winchester family. They were never going to let her go. He just had to convince Joan and Sam of that fact.

***

A little torture had given him some perspective. He'd even gone back to spunky little Ava Wilson. She was ready for picking, so he relocated her to Cold Oak to see if she'd fight it out.

Samuel Winchester belonged to him. His mother had sold him to Azazel long before he was born. And when the demon discovered how the Winchesters were hiding from him, there would be blood. Probably other bodily fluids as well.

They would appear again. All he had to do was wait.

And then Samuel and his child would be his.


	9. Epilogue

The morning after Sam's life was tilted on its axis (for the third time in two weeks) was oddly anticlimactic. Dean took one look at Joan's black eye and bruised cheek and declared that she would be staying inside for the duration and learning how to properly shoot a sawed-off as soon as possible. He went for a food run, Joan fed Billy and got ready to give him a bath, and Sam half-heartedly began researching for the next job, his attention more on the girl in the bathroom.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" Joan glanced up from the baby lying on the bathroom vanity. "He needs a bath. This is the best way to do it."

"Yeah, that's not what I meant." Sam watched as Joan flushed and turned back to the baby. "You talk to God. Seems like a big deal." That Dean knew about this and believed was another big deal, but he wasn't planning on having her around for that discussion. He got up and stood in the bathroom doorway so he could see her better.

"It's not really that I talk to God. It's that God talks to me." Joan looked up and met his eyes in the mirror, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

"And he asks you to do things?"

She nodded. "It started when I was sixteen. Simple things at first, like getting a job or asking the school bully to a dance, but then the assignments started to become really complicated. I started to be able to know more about people, and I could . . . Isee/I more."

"Like what?"

"Just . . .more. More about people and what was going on with them. More of what was going on around me. And, you know, ghosts. Things that kind of bridge the gap between living and dead."

Sam was quiet as she bustled about, filling the ice bucket with lukewarm water and laying out the diaper and onesie she would need afterwards. "What's it like?"

"Scary," she answered almost immediately. "Could you hold him?" Sam held out his hands, and Joan handed over the baby and started the process of undressing him. The infant bleated in protest, but Joan was quick and efficient and had him in the sink of warm water before he could break into full-out screams. "Support his neck and back for me?" He complied, sliding his functional hand in where Joan's had been. "I thought I was going crazy. Suddenly this teenage boy was showing up and telling me to get a job, and a little girl was telling me to have some pride in what I do, and this weird goth guy was telling me to ask the school bully to the dance."

"And they were all God?"

"Every single one. My family hadn't gone to church in almost two years, and God was showing up on the bus and telling me to learn how to play chess and jump rope." Joan finished her careful ministrations and lifted Billy out of the water and onto a towel. A smile curved her lips as she dried him off with a soft towel that came out of her bag, and Sam couldn't help but smile in response. "And when I did what he wanted, things just worked out. I helped people, somehow, even when it didn't look like what I was doing was important."

"And that's what you do?"

Joan nodded, her attention and focus on the baby. "Whatever He asks, even when it doesn't make sense or isn't what I want. That's how I knew I could trust you and Dean. He told me to go with you."

Sam's forehead furrowed, then smoothed. "The guy outside the bar?"

"Yeah." She fastened the diaper and slid the onesie onto the squirming baby, fastening the snaps quickly and slipping on a pair of pants over chubby flailing legs, catching one foot as it kicked up at her and kissing it. "Can you take him for a little bit? I need to take a shower."

"Sure." The exchange was a little awkward, but Joan didn't seem to mind so Sam decided not to mind either.


End file.
